My secret shame

My name is Libby Mitchell -- and I am late night eater.

There are few certainties in this world. Puppies are always cute, Utah will always vote Republican, eating ceviche from a sidewalk vendor is never a good idea and sometime between midnight and 2am I will walk the floor -- with the need to feed. Now, in this day and age of weight loss gurus and diets that wisely suggest "just don't eat anything white" eating past 8pm is looked upon as a sin on par with punching a kitten while spewing racial epithets -- on national TV. Both Oprah Winfrey and Pamela Anderson have spoken out about it -- which pretty much makes it law. But I can't help myself. Early in the morning hours, before even roosters are up, I find myself sleepily walking from my bedroom to the kitchen in search of snacks. Sally is normally hot on my heels, waiting for whatever morsel may fall from my grasp and onto the floor. Leftovers are always a favorite, as is pizza or tortillas. I mean, whats the point of late night eating if you're going to have carrots?

I don't think I am ever fully awake when I eat in the middle of the night. the next morning the snack is more of a tasty fever dream than the memory of a meal. Nothing has its daytime taste -- it all is just a bit better and delicious eaten in only the glow of the refrigerator bulb. Then the urge to eat leaves as quickly as it came, I hit the pillow and am almost instantly asleep.

I should probably stop my midnight snacking, it has obviously added to my less than svelte, but not quite circus lady figure and I am never hungry for breakfast, which Bill Cosby taught me is the most important meal of the day. Of course, he also is accused of drugging women and groping them and I am not going to start doing that any time soon.

So, I guess for now I will just enjoy my refrigerator picnics and let Oprah and Pammy scoff along with the rest of the world. I am loner, Dotty, a rebel, and I just can't wait eight hours between meals.