Manly meals (why does my pizza have a gender?)

When our pizza was served last night (why yes, I am stretching one event out into two blog posts), the server set down a fresh basil, mushroom, tomato onion pizza in front of me, and a rich pepperoni, sausage, kalamata olive one in front of Zach. Which would be fine, except that I'm the carnivore, and Zach is the one who understands that vegetables have a role outside of salads.

This happens almost every time we go out to eat. I have the manliest, meatiest thing imaginable, while Zach has something light and lovely. I dig into a juicy T-bone, he nibbles at a Caesar salad. Every time we are automatically served the other persons meal, every time we switch plates, and every time I get a little raised eyebrow or a smirk tossed in my direction.

I usually blush a little, or mumble something about feeling extra hungry that night. Like I'm embarrassed by or need to apologize for eating what I want or for not eating healthy. (Although come on, it's a pizza. The veggies aren't going to save it.) 

Am I crazy to think that this is a gendered thing? Most people don't look twice at a man eating a meat lovers special, but it's weird for a woman to, or for a man to chow down on a good salad. It's just food, isn't that kind of a stupid thing to be gendered? Is it because meat helps build big, scary muscles? Is being fat so scary and horrible for women (who of course must remain at sex-kitten perfection)that a less than healthy meal is taboo? Is red meat some sort of gateway drug for double x-chromosomes?

This isn't just a date night observation. I've been out with women and gone through the obligatory round of apologies and how I'm being so bad before ordering something a little more than dainty. It's kind of a weird, awkward ritual of policing food norms and assuring everyone that the hamburger is just a rare deviation from a life of dressing on the side.

I'm tired for feeling bad about food or going through exaggerated play acting to pretend like I feel bad. Here's my not-so dirty little secret: I like food, and I don't always feel guilty or naughty about it. I like meat and fat and cheese and deep fried things. They taste really good - moans and bedroom noises good. Sure, I don't eat like that all or even most of the time. I have no magic metabolism, and I put forth a decent amount of effort to keep my jeans zipping up over my already generous thighs and rolled stomach. Tonight I dinned on a very reasonable salad and grilled chicken breast with strawberries for dessert. That's the norm. I know that a delicious yet healthy recipe is worth its weight in gold.

But if I'm going to spend the time and money to go out, you better believe I'm going to get something because it will make my mouth happy. Next time I'm going to look at the server with a great big smile and no apologies as I reach for my plate.