on my jack lemmon kick, i recently watched the 1962 blake edwards’ film days of wine and roses (based in SF!)
it was bleak. jack lemmon, a well-meaning but damaged PR guy in the two-martini lunch era, has a crippling dependency issue. he meets lee remick, a pure, sweet thing who doesn’t even like the taste of alcohol (but loves chocolate). they “fall in love,” marry, procreate, etc, but everything quickly disintegrates because of booze. she too has become an alcoholic to pass the days of being a bored and pensive housewife.
in the end, he miraculously manages to give up the bottle, but she’s a wreck wandering the streets in an ethanol-induced stupor. mind you, they have a daughter! as immensely as he wants her back, he needs to know she can stop, or at least try to stop, but she refuses to promise even an effort, acknowledging, “But I can’t face the idea of never having another drink.”
and that got me thinking: wow, that’s heavy. is there something that i crave and am so severely addicted too that i couldn’t even imagine ever giving up? for life? (other than love, affection, friendship?) forgive me for my offensively rude and crude analogy, but the answer is food. yeah, i guess could just subsist on chicken breast and fish and veggies for the rest of my life (if i was a vegetable), but it’s the starches, the sugars, the deep fried goodies, all that stuff, that i need.
understand that i am not likening my relationship with food to an alcoholic’s relationship with alcohol. hardly the case. it’s just that thinking about substance abuse in this way gave me an extremely deep appreciation, or vague idea, of the impossible epic battle that addicts must face if they want to win. it’s downright depressing, and requires the sort of willpower that i can’t even fathom. i think about a relative whose life was lost to this battle, and it saddens me to no end.
i’ll be the first to admit that i have an eating disorder. sure it’s not bulimia or anorexia, but there’s definitely a pathological, psychological connection i have with food. it’s intense. the passion for good eating is fine and dandy, but i’m talking about the sick primal binging (no really, it’s disgusting), the absolute lack of control, the full-throttle consumption, and how all of it feeds into my body image, the incessant utterly violent self loathing. it’s probably my one true consistent sourse of unhappiness. i don’t think it’s just emotional eating either, a la jack donaghy (but i assure you if i could find a huge tub of cheese balls i’d be all over it)
well this has probably been my most navel gazing post ever. if you didn’t know it before, it’s been confirmed for you here: yes, i really am that superficial and shallow.
in days of wine and roses, jack lemmon would ritually say with pleasure, right before taking a swig, “magic time.” and that’s how i feel every time i eat something delicious.
