It's called the "Hapifork," it behaves like a sex toy, and it will embarrass you and everyone you know.
One of life’s most mundane endeavors is weight
loss. As much as I’ve tried to enjoy going to the gym (shoutout to the
ladies at water aerobics! Much love!) or embracing a fun new diet
(cabbage soup! Never leaving the bathroom again!), my boredom has always
caught up with me. And if not my boredom, then a polite gym attendant
who has to invite me to stop walking on the treadmill like it's a runway
because it is disturbing the other patrons.
Monday, 4 P.M.
After a four-hour charging period, the fork is ready for use. I’m less ready than the fork, mainly because in my excitement to try it I have ordered food that is not traditionally eaten with such an instrument: curry soup and fries. In a fit of inspiration I spear the fries with the fork and eat them one by one as nature never intended. I eat slowly at first so as not to anger the fork. Then, having felt no vibrations or embarrassing light-ups, I begin taking risks, shoving food into my mouth at a human pace. The fork buzzes against my teeth. I feel like I am at the dentist. I eat slower.
Monday, 4:30 P.M.
After the tenth individual fry (which I chewed 100 times, thank you), I drop the fork and go after the entire basket. When my partner Allen comes home and asks whether I ate slower, I just growl and fling the remaining nubs of French fries at his face.
Tuesday, 6 P.M.
The fork and I go to an Italian restaurant. As I’m removing it from its case, the waitress tells me that the restaurant provides its own forks for my convenience. I explain that I need a special fork as Allen looks on, mortified. What?
Tuesday, 6:15 P.M.
Allen tells me he prefers me not eating with what appears to be an enormous multi-pronged vibrator. He says I look like a sad, sexual Christmas Tree.
Tuesday, 6:16 P.M.
I put the fork away. I eat seven breadsticks.
Wednesday, 12 P.M.
I take the fork to a work party but am too afraid to use it. Instead, I keep it in my bag and force myself to count to ten in between bites. I feel like an insanitor.
Wednesday, 1 P.M.
I steal a slice of cake from the party and eat it in my office with the fork. At the rate I’m going, I’m afraid I'll run out the batteries at record speed. The fork buzzes and buzzes. A friend enters the office and I quickly stick the fork into my bag where it refuses to believe I’ve stopped eating and vibrates in desperation, begging me to slow down like it's that one song by TLC. I hear you, fork. I’m trying to stick to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to.
My friend asks if I plan on answering my phone because it seems like someone is trying to get through. I consider taking out my phone and talking loudly on it to drown out the fork, but think better of it. Instead I kick my bag. So much for looking sane.
Thursday, 8:30 P.M.
We (me and the fork; this is my main relationship now. Allen is there, too) are going out to dinner with my his friends on Friday and we agree that we need to discuss it beforehand.
After a four-hour charging period, the fork is ready for use. I’m less ready than the fork, mainly because in my excitement to try it I have ordered food that is not traditionally eaten with such an instrument: curry soup and fries. In a fit of inspiration I spear the fries with the fork and eat them one by one as nature never intended. I eat slowly at first so as not to anger the fork. Then, having felt no vibrations or embarrassing light-ups, I begin taking risks, shoving food into my mouth at a human pace. The fork buzzes against my teeth. I feel like I am at the dentist. I eat slower.
Monday, 4:30 P.M.
After the tenth individual fry (which I chewed 100 times, thank you), I drop the fork and go after the entire basket. When my partner Allen comes home and asks whether I ate slower, I just growl and fling the remaining nubs of French fries at his face.
Tuesday, 6 P.M.
The fork and I go to an Italian restaurant. As I’m removing it from its case, the waitress tells me that the restaurant provides its own forks for my convenience. I explain that I need a special fork as Allen looks on, mortified. What?
Tuesday, 6:15 P.M.
Allen tells me he prefers me not eating with what appears to be an enormous multi-pronged vibrator. He says I look like a sad, sexual Christmas Tree.
Tuesday, 6:16 P.M.
I put the fork away. I eat seven breadsticks.
Wednesday, 12 P.M.
I take the fork to a work party but am too afraid to use it. Instead, I keep it in my bag and force myself to count to ten in between bites. I feel like an insanitor.
Wednesday, 1 P.M.
I steal a slice of cake from the party and eat it in my office with the fork. At the rate I’m going, I’m afraid I'll run out the batteries at record speed. The fork buzzes and buzzes. A friend enters the office and I quickly stick the fork into my bag where it refuses to believe I’ve stopped eating and vibrates in desperation, begging me to slow down like it's that one song by TLC. I hear you, fork. I’m trying to stick to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to.
My friend asks if I plan on answering my phone because it seems like someone is trying to get through. I consider taking out my phone and talking loudly on it to drown out the fork, but think better of it. Instead I kick my bag. So much for looking sane.
Thursday, 8:30 P.M.
We (me and the fork; this is my main relationship now. Allen is there, too) are going out to dinner with my his friends on Friday and we agree that we need to discuss it beforehand.
"How long do you plan to do this?" Allen asks. “Like is this a week-long thing?"
"This is a lifestyle change," I tell him. "This is me now."
"You should practice in the mirror then. You make really weird faces
when you’re expecting the fork to vibrate, and it’s clear that you’re
counting to ten between bites."
He’s correct. When I consult with the mirror — vibrating forks! Talking mirrors! Bring me the heart of Snow White! — it’s clear that the fork will still take a little bit of getting used to. I’m biting too hard and my teeth are clanging against it.
"And the red light is freaky too," Allen says as he passes by. "That is some real American Horror Story shit you’ve got going on there."
Friday, 7 P.M.
I choose not to bring the fork out to dinner. Mainly because I forget. But it may not just be a coincidence. Even though the fork forces me to be mindful of my eating, it’s not as effective as I’d hoped. The buzzing isn’t enough to make me eat slower, the vibration actually makes eating pleasant, and the red light in my peripheral vision just annoys me.
Plus, it’s a fork the size of a Yeti’s hand that vibrates like a dying bed at a cheap motel. I think I’ll take my chances with a few extra pounds.
He’s correct. When I consult with the mirror — vibrating forks! Talking mirrors! Bring me the heart of Snow White! — it’s clear that the fork will still take a little bit of getting used to. I’m biting too hard and my teeth are clanging against it.
"And the red light is freaky too," Allen says as he passes by. "That is some real American Horror Story shit you’ve got going on there."
Friday, 7 P.M.
I choose not to bring the fork out to dinner. Mainly because I forget. But it may not just be a coincidence. Even though the fork forces me to be mindful of my eating, it’s not as effective as I’d hoped. The buzzing isn’t enough to make me eat slower, the vibration actually makes eating pleasant, and the red light in my peripheral vision just annoys me.
Plus, it’s a fork the size of a Yeti’s hand that vibrates like a dying bed at a cheap motel. I think I’ll take my chances with a few extra pounds.
By Mark Shrayber
