Ate a late breakfast of lentils and spinach today. Jeannie and Adam had eggs, which I have never been a fan of. I’m content and self-satisfied, since I would have chosen the lentils over the eggs, regardless of the situation. This is good, since my strongest test of willpower yet is soon in coming.
A historic day in my 30/30 journey, today is the first in which I will brave a social setting where (1) food is present, (2) the food is one of my fave’s and (3) all are welcome and expected to share in the fare. We’re going to Brian and Michelle’s, and they are ordering pizza.
To impress upon you the import of this day, I must first begin by reminding the reader how much I love Food. I cannot say often or enthusiastically enough how much I love Food. Food and I have an intensely passionate and long-standing love affair.
As is too often the case in the most fiery and dependent romances, my relationship with food has often been a tumultuous one. Logic, and Fitness Magazine tell me that thoughtful and moderate relationships are the most healthy and stable, yet food and I continue to have a hot-and-cold, but unbreakable bond. I don’t just want Food, I need Food. I love Food for the power it has over me. I hate Food for the power it has over me. I almost got away once. I spent nearly an entire year existing almost exclusively on spinach salads and Ken’s Light Caeser dressing. I’d nearly broken free of the bridle. But like so many of those before me, who have been called back into the reign of a dominant lover, I once again gave over to my feverish, if destructive, devotion to Food.
One of the little mind tricks Food likes to play on me is Pizza. Pizza is like Food, in one of its purest and most wonderful forms. Pizza woos me with excitement, tells me how pretty I am, and that we will always be together. And unless I run every day, which inevitably I will not, Pizza will leave me fat and sad, wanting more Pizza. Pizza always deserts me, and all I am left with is a few extra pounds and the stains down the front of my blouse – which is, of course, now a size too small. But still, Pizza has my heart, my soul, my side fat.
Now, imagine me, watching everyone around me with their hands and mouths all over my true love. My heart and stomach churn with intense jealousy. Noooooo, pizza! You must be mine and only mine! In an attempt to disguise the F-ing lunatic raging inside of me, I smile and resist the urge to tackle Julie as she casually tosses her crust into the mouth of the unappreciative pit-bull mix, Vegas. I eat my falafel taco, which is actually pretty good, with a plastic smile fixed on my face. I talk about how good Falafel Taco is, in an attempt to make Pizza think I don’t care about it anymore. “Oh, yeah, Falafel Taco, you’re so much better for me than Pizza ever was. I don’t know whaaaat I was thinking when I used to get with Pizza all the time. Frankly, I think Pizza is underrated, I mean, overrated.”
But seriously, no matter how good Falafel Taco is, she’ll always be the average girl I settled for. Sure, we’ll get married, move to the suburbs, and have kids, but I’ll always be thinking of Pizza when we’re together. Pizza will always be the prettier, smarter, richer, more popular girl that moved away to chase her dream of being an actress, and actually succeeded. And now I’m at the same dinner party as Pizza with my Falafel Taco of a wife pretending like I’m happy for her happiness. That bitch. I hate her.
I didn’t eat any pizza.
Another falafel taco for dinner. Two frozen blackberries for dessert.
Side Note: Saw the bicycle bandit in the park today.