Super-size Me


I consider myself a middle-aged man. My friend, who I’ll call Doug to protect his privacy but whose actual name is Kevin, said that I am middle-aged in the same sense that December is the middle of the year. Doug (Kevin) is a person who thinks charming is a brand of toilet paper. After a half-day with him, even a nun would cuss. Regardless, his December line was a good one. But, I’m not blogging about D-Kev today.No, today I’m blogging yet again about my quirky eating practices. First, let’s just lay it on the line. I am a middle-aged man who has the eating habits of a college freshman away from home for the first time. Let’s take a walk through the last several days, shall we?Last Wednesday I took a look in my fridge just out of morbid curiosity. The shelves were stocked with a 2 quart container of milk, a bag of tortillas dating roughly from the late 60s, and a sticky yet almost completely full bottle of grenadine. In the vegetable crisper I found various unidentifiable fruit-like objects, all consistently black in color and mushy in texture. I thought of combining all of these items in a blender to make one kick-ass smoothie but decided that I would save that treat for a special occasion.

On Thursday night I had leftover fajitas from a restaurant that I frequent. Why the hell do restaurants think that a grand total of 3 tortillas will be enough with ¾ of a pound of meat and a plate full of sautéed onions and peppers? Luckily, I had plenty of tortillas in my well stocked fridge to solve this crisis. I pulled out the last five tortillas from the 1960s era bag and estimated that each of them would probably require 1 minute of heating in the microwave. I slapped all five in the microwave, set it on five minutes and plopped down in front of the TV to watch Sean Hannity rip a liberal a new one. That’s always good for a chuckle and I always walk up to the TV set afterwards and give Sean a virtual high five although he rarely reciprocates.Sean had the pencil-necked geek shrieking like a stuck pig so much so that I actually began to smell the singed pork. Or was that burnt tortillas? Yes, it was burnt tortillas. They were all black like fruit and instead of being mushy they were stiff as a board. They didn’t really smell like pork. Actually, and this is odd, they smelled exactly like burnt popcorn. But instead of being made out of corn, these tortillas were made out of flour. I contemplated that conundrum for awhile then I dropped all five fruit colored tortillas into the kitchen trash basket. Why the hell do restaurants think that a grand total of 3 tortillas will be enough with ¾ of a pound of meat and a plate full of sautéed onions and peppers?

Fast forward to tonight. I came home from the office and quickly noticed a loaf of bread and bottle of wine on the dining room table. My first reaction was to conclude that two lovers, soulmates but criminals nonetheless, had broken in and had a romantic rendezvous on my premises. No doubt they were probably still in the bedroom doing god knows what to defile my sheets. My second reaction was to consume half a loaf of bread (multi-grain, very tasty) and to drink three glasses of wine. I called it dinner. Roughly three hours later I ate half a container of large soft cookies from the bakery. I washed them down with two glasses of milk.

I see nothing wrong with any of my culinary habits. I like the way I eat. Yet do-gooder busybodies like nutritionists and moms would look askance at this type of thing. Why, I don’t know. Especially when it is unlikely that the nutritionists know what askance means anyway.Oh yes. I never did find those lovers/criminals but I did find a nice new pair of pants next to the bed and some fairly impractical ladies undergarments tossed about the room in a rather untidy arrangement. I figure that if I start eating right I’ll be able to fit into those garments by December. Or as I like to call it, mid-year.

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~ by Tim Daniel on June 10, 2007.

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