An Open Letter to the Old Male Coworker Who Keeps Commenting on the Size of My Lunch

Who hurt you?

Does my harsh, rhythmic slicing of this cucumber painfully and slowly chip away at your fragile male ego? Am I attacking your maleness with my swift chops of this red bell pepper? Do I crush whatever remaining self-worth you have by choosing to add chickpeas instead of a real, American bred steak to my six-day-old spring green lettuce medley?

Tell me. I want to help.

There’s pain behind those eyes. I know you see my delicious creation, and I know you want it. Bad.

I also see you’ve noticed (and commented on!) my size and how that relates to the food I’m currently inhaling. I’ve been feeling insecure lately, so thank you for addressing how I look in such a public way. It means a lot. Thank YOU for your service, sir.

You mentioned that my portion was “big” and was wondering if I’d be able to “eat all that”. You betcha. Don’t worry, size doesn’t scare me. Wink.

I now see that the above phrase might have gone too far. It’s true, I never learned how to keep my damn mouth shut. Stupid feminism!

This is clearly on me. I chose to eat a stupid healthy dish without thinking about how it would make anyone feel. People are starving after all! And here I am, just EATING a NORMAL portion of food. I can be so callous.

I’ve made you feel unhealthy and challenged your narrow box of gender norms. For that, I am truly sorry. In the future, I will try and warn you before you have to lay eyes on my extremely sized food.

I’ll scream, “WAIT, DON’T LOOK AT IT. IF YOU DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH IT, IT CAN’T HURT YOU.” You will weep and I will carefully move around you in order to shield you from such horrific views.

It’s perfect! You will be free of such disgusting views and I, finally, will be able to eat in peace.

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