If you’ve been following my new(ish) Facebook page, you might have noticed that on Saturday, I once again wrote a post celebrating food.
You guys, I never realized how much I loved writing about food until all of those status updates--some enhanced with pictures--were lined up, one after the other.
I promise that I am not one of those people who needs a pulley and lever system aided by a complete emergency medical team in order to get out of my bed—NOT that I’m judging if you or someone you know is.
Hey, I get it. I love food, too. In fact, I’d call myself a foodie, but I think that’s too sophisticated of a word for someone whose favorite food splurges are chicken nuggets and Taco Bell chili cheese burritos (+ sour cream)—and, okay, sushi.
But I work out like a motha 5-6 days a week for my license to cheat, and honestly, I don’t eat that terribly. Fried foods were ruined for me in college, when that was all we used to eat. I remember clearly the night I stopped adoring them. I had been gnawing on a chicken finger (poor chicken) and had paused to wash it down with a guzzle of my vodka tonic.
And suddenly I came to a really sad realization, and I say “really sad” because everything I had known and loved about the culinary world up to that point in my life crumbled to pieces with it: All of this fried stuff tastes the same. I could be eating a fried turd, really, and I wouldn’t know the difference.
After that, I didn’t eat much fried food. And with anything else, I really do believe in moderation. I eat everything, but I don’t eat a shitload of everything. I’d like to say “unless I’m nursing a screaming hangover,” but I’m honest to a fault and that kind of sounds too cool for my current experience. Because the only types of hangovers I get are those "mom hangovers," where we have full intentions of whooping it up with the hubs and a bunch of drinks on the couch on a Saturday night after the kids finally fall asleep, only to have 2 beers before falling into a deep, exhausted slumber ourselves. The next day we might feel a little groggy, but it's nothing that our usual morning cup of coffee can't fix.
So rest assured, my eating habits aren’t horrible, but I like to chronicle them in a laughy way when they are.
The joke will be on me, however, when my calories burned cannot possibly continue to compete with calories consumed, and I begin my EBay search for a cheap pulley and lever system.
Until then, here’s an update on my Facebook post from Saturday:
A cup of coffee (2 creams, 2 sugars), chicken fingers and cheese balls (an extra side of ranch, please): the perfect "first meal back" for someone who spent all day yesterday riddled with the trots, right? Oh, good. That's what I figured.
And you know what?
Whatever it was—God heard my prayers and was with me that day; the stars aligned; I really do know my body and its signals—it was the first time in 24 hours that I didn’t shit my pants after eating more than 2 bites of something.