Don’t You Hate It When Someone Wants To Share Your Food?

Hey, I have boundaries

Picture this-

You’re on a deserted island somewhere out in the middle of the ocean. Let’s assume you couldn’t figure out how to make a fire, so for the last few weeks you’ve survived by eating raw crab meat, coconuts, and rainwater.

Finally, the friend you presumed dead when your boat capsized returns for you on a giant cruise ship. He brings you on-deck, cleans you up, then accompanies you to the canteen for the first hot meal you’ve had in what feels like forever.

As you sit down, dreaming of insanely huge cheeseburgers, greasy french fries and a monster soda, your friend says, “I took the liberty of ordering for us. I thought we could split a sandwich and an orange soda. OK? I’m trying to watch my weight and figured you wouldn’t mind helping me out with that.”

I was at lunch with a group of friends last week when this very thing happened to me. One of my friends had recently gotten a job promotion, and we wanted to honor her with lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant. The place serves exquisite food but is rather pricey, so we only go there as a treat when we have something to celebrate.

In the days before our lunch, I obsessed over the restaurant’s menu, drooling while I thought about what I might order. My husband told me I looked like a crazed maniac and wondered aloud if I had turned to drugs.

Eventually, I settled on Linguine Con Vongole, a pasta dish with clams and parsley swimming in a lovely garlic butter sauce. My mouth still waters just thinking about it.

The morning of our lunch I chose not to eat much, saving room for the delights that awaited me. By the time I got to the restaurant, I felt like a starved tiger.

After the menus came and we ordered our drinks, my good friend, Stacey, whispered to me, “Hey, let’s split something, OK? I have this big thing tonight for my husband’s firm and I don’t want to overeat before we go.”

Wait, what?

I looked at her like she’d just escaped the asylum. This place feeds you like your grandmother did when she thought your own parents didn’t do a good enough job. We all know to come hungry.

I kind of growled at Stacey. “Listen, sister, I can’t let you get away with that.”

I stuck to my guns and ordered the pasta while everyone else at the table ordered their favorites. Stacey ordered a salad. Not even the famed antipasto salad with loads of good things in it. Nope, she ordered a good old-fashioned garden salad with ranch dressing.

This restaurant has a few stars by its name. I thought ordering a garden salad with ranch dressing was about the same as ordering corn dogs at the county fair.

After our food came, Stacey took one look at my linguine, grabbed her fork and skewered one of my clams with a bit of pasta.

“Do you mind? It just looks so good.”

We’re all close friends and we’ve shared a lot of food together over the years, so mostly I didn’t mind. Although I would have stabbed her if she tried to take another bite.

I’ll never understand understand how someone who really likes fabulous pasta would ever order a salad. With ranch. From an upscale Italian restaurant.

Help me out here. Is this a control thing? Do people overstep my boundaries because they worry about their weight or how much they spend? Are they looking for a co-conspirator?

I’ve had this happen more times than I care to admit. I hate it when people assume I’ll go along with their agenda by limiting my options. I have my own agenda, thanks, so keep yours to yourself.

I’m really not opposed to considering other people’s preferences, and I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. If we need to go cheap, I know some good places. If you’re on a diet, we can go somewhere that serves lighter fare. But once we’re there, please let me make my own choices.

You do you, and let me do me. And seriously, if I’m hungry, keep your mitts off my food.