Marcie: What are you doing?
Courtney: God! Tuna munch?
Fern: But my mom always–
Courtney: We never eat at lunch. Do you understand me? If for some damn good reason we did, we would never, ever eat out of a brown paper bag. I don’t care if there’s a culinary masterpiece in it. Get rid of it.
Fern: Sorry.
Courtney: If I get a zit because of this–
Fern: I’m sorry.
Courtney: I’d better never have kids. I have zero patience. [beat] Don’t think we’re anorexic, we’re not. That’s for the Karen Carpenter table. We’re not stupid. We eat. And we eat well. We just don’t eat in public. We don’t want people judging us by what we eat. It gives them ammo. The only ones with ammo are us. Food’s cool. You need it to live. But the mere act of eating invokes thoughts of digestion, flatulation, defecation, even, shall we say, complexion defection. I’d never eat a greasy pizza. Not even in front of the ultra-special students – the deaf, dumb and the blind – because at some terrifying level they’re associating that greasy pizza with your shiny face. A zit, a blackhead, a cluster of pores. It’s just another vexing stress.
Marcie: Life is hard enough without added anxiety.