I'll never forget the look in my boyfriend's eyes the first time he caught me. Shock, confusion, disgust, sorrow...even some pity.
I, on the other hand, looked around anxiously, trying to spot the horrifying thing that must have been happening behind me. "Is there a bug?" I cried. "Get it off me!"
The thing is, it had never even occurred to me to be ashamed of eating in bed. And why would it? Bed eating is my great love, my deepest comfort. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, makes me happier than curling up with some comfort food for a few episodes of crappy laptop TV. (Obviously the laptop's in there already. Where else would I keep it?) And hey—why stop at eating in bed when you can cook in bed, too?
Yeah, that's right. Sometimes, I make salad in bed. And yes, I can hear all your gasps and groans, the rapid contraction of your wrinkled, scrunched-up noses. Your visions of the pest-ridden squalor in which I must surely reside. There are few more contentious love-it-or-hate-it topics than bed eating. I should know—not only have I been oppressively banned from eating in my boyfriend's bed, but five years of trying to convince him to adapt has proved utterly fruitless (despite the fact that he is, in all other respects, completely whipped*).
*Case in point, he has approved this message.
So here's the thing. Before my all-time favorite place to eat gets relegated to the realm of dirty habit or guilty pleasure by all the self-righteous, highly vocal, naysaying Jamie Feldmars "normals" out there, I have to know—is there a movement of bed eaters out there, lying together in the dark, munching potato chips under the covers, collectively reveling in a state of gloriously sated solidarity?
Bed eaters of the world, unite!
Or just, you know, answer the question. Do you eat in bed, or what?