Sometimes, I just don’t know when to stop eating. Tonight I came home for dinner and, seeing nothing cooking on the stove, put together a large bowl of cereal. I went into the living room to see my husband and he asked me why I was eating cereal when he was making burgers. I said, oh man, I thought you hadn’t prepared anything. But what to do? I couldn’t just dump the stuff. I had already done that this morning when I poured bad milk onto a bowl full. So I ate the cereal and then assembled my burger. And a mound of Tater Tots. And drank a tall glass of water.
It’s not really the burger or the taters that sent me over the edge, though. That line was dangerously crossed when I got back to work tonight and thought it a good idea to have two marzipan pastries. Don’t judge me, THEY WERE SMALL PASTRIES.
So now I’m bloated, and sedentary. My job is not exactly physically taxing. Sometimes I stand up during commercial breaks and do push ups against the computer console. Right now I’m extending my legs out in front of me in my office chair. I’m burning loads of calories.
Why don’t I learn? Even as I’m eating that blasted pastry I know I don’t want it. I knew I’d have to sit on my ass for the next four hours.
I fear it won’t be too long before I am no longer able to get away with the alimentary recklessness of my youth. My youth being three years ago. Because, word is, once you hit thirty it’s like BAM! Your whole metabolism changes and suddenly grazing on your co-worker’s Costco-sized box of mini Charleston Chews after having a bowl of cereal, a burger, taters and two marzipan pastries doesn’t seem like such a good idea.