Thursday, April 3, 2014

Gluttony: second of the seven deadly sins and, perhaps, the only noun apt enough to describe tonight’s proceedings. In the span of just a few hours, I may have wiped out an entire week’s worth of toil in the fitness center, and the food amnesia that previously afflicted me all but disappeared. I remembered pizza tonight to the fullest extent, along with Moscow Mules and rich, rich, whiskey cake.

It was a guys’ night out, and I’m pretty sure there’s an unspoken rule that ordering a salad is forbidden. But my kryptonite stems from another rule, one that is entirely self-imposed–I tend to clean-plate club it. I don’t even know why I do it. You’d think my upbringing was marked by harsh rationing, or a blind hatred of reheating food, neither of which is the case. It simply happens, and it’s got to stop. Leftovers are perfectly acceptable.

I also realized that as joyless as my new regimen may be at meal times, eating way too much can be equally joyless. I guess it’s about finding the balance–always the balance–and there’s still a ways to go. Dining used to be such a simple affair. Now, it’s a puzzle, where calories, time, and social currency are all in motion. Three axes, diametrically opposed, and completely unavoidable.