The gluttony is not straight up, but rather a side-effect of very good intention, of wishing to fulfill someone’s desire for companionship as they enjoy an evening meal despite the fact that you’ve already had one.
It’s not like it happens all the time. Maybe five times a decade. Each time it does, it comes as a surprise, an unpleasant one: I always forget that I am the kind of person who will do this until I’m actually doing it again.
And as I chew through the second plateful of whatever with something like the weary resignation of someone bound to be the runner-up, but not a quitter, in a pie-eating contest, I find myself thinking: why do I find the pain of over-consumption less daunting than the pain of telling someone that I’ve already eaten, that I’ll just sit and have a glass of wine while they nosh?
And furthermore: what is it like to be the kind of person who would never eat two dinners in one night?
