Last week, I had a pretty bad break-up. It came late one night as I was sat on the sofa in front of the telly, some time around 11.30pm (stick with me, the time is important).
I realised that I just couldn’t do this any more. The relationship had become too much, and it was time for me to let go. I looked down at my lap, the remnants of my obsession and desire laying there, and made the difficult decision that, Ross and Rachel style, we needed to go on a break.
I stood up defiantly, walked out and went slowly up to bed, glancing back only briefly. Lying there, I could feel my stomach dealing with the effects of something I should have stopped a long time ago. This was it – me and fried chicken wings need some time apart.
Confused? Let me explain. I’m one of those “eat my feelings” kinda gals. In moments of extreme sadness, I turn to food. But I’m not a chocolate and sweets person – sugary snacks just aren’t my bag. I’m savoury all the way.
So when I need comfort, I will always turn to my favourite thing on a starter menu – chicken wings. And since my best mate Darrell died a month ago, I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time and energy devouring chicken wings, usually with a delicious glass of Rioja to wash them down (I may hail from south-east London, but I’m very classy with it).
I’ve spent a lot of time at Darrell’s house over the past month, hanging out with his wife and children, cooking, pottering around, and helping them prepare for his funeral. After every visit I would need time alone just to decompress before walking through the door of my own house and hugging my kids.
So where did I end up? In the pub two doors down from our house, in the corner, headphones in and watching Netflix, making my way through “my usual”: a glass of wine and a plate of wings. And on the nights when it was just too late to be hanging out in the pub on my own, I’d put the kids to bed, then order some wings. I was so consumed by sadness, I sought comfort in the thing that always connected me, Darrell and our south-east London roots – wings.
But it was the night of his funeral when I realised what I was doing to myself. I got home at 11pm consumed by grief, sadness, and a lot of rum. But rather than take myself to bed, half an hour later I was eating takeaway wings (they tasted amazing, in case you were wondering).
As I finished the final wing in a house that was quiet, other than the faint hum of the TV in the background, it hit me. I couldn’t do this any more. Eating my feelings had been fun, decadent even, but it wasn’t helping the sadness at all. And it was making going back to the gym really hard, because at that point, I was probably 90 per cent wings.
When we’re trying to navigate difficult new – or sometimes old – feelings, some people turn to chocolate or sweets, some to savoury food like me, and others to alcohol. A full belly, or a brain numbed by booze, can push away the one thing you’re not quite ready to deal with.
If, like me, you’re long in tooth when it comes to experiencing grief, you can recognise the signs a mile off. I knew I was delaying processing what had happened as I headed to the pub for wings in the days after he died. But I also knew I needed to do that. I needed the decadence of eating the thing we both loved to eat. I needed that comfort, just for a bit. I ate chicken wings of all varieties as often as I wanted for four weeks. And it did the job, to be honest.
But now that my jeans are a little tighter, my face a tad chubbier, and my gym sessions a lot more difficult than they were before, and with my friend now laid to rest, me and chicken wings are on a break.
The best break-up is usually a clean split. But both wings and I know that one day, I’ll be back. Sigh.
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