The Lie Starts in the Kitchen

It all starts with a lie.

A big fat, floppy, stinky lie.

You tell yourself you're just going downstairs for a snack.

You know, a small bite. A handful of low-sodium almonds or dried cherries. Maybe chase them with a swig of orange juice. That's responsible. That's cute. That's an adult decision.

But, Noooooo.

You didn't go HAM for supper - You convince yourself to go ahead and take a little peek, just squeeze your little noggin in the freezer, and have a looky- loo around.

Hey there, frozen chicken bits from Costco. They're not bad, right? Of course, they are not. They’re lightly breaded, for God's sake! Says so right on the freakin’ bag. It's not like you're gonna deep fry them. That air fryer, sheepishly hanging out in the kitchen corner, well, that baby needs to start carrying its weight.

Dipping sauce? Who said that?

Well, of course, you have to have some? You're not a Philistine. You're not going to raw dog these chicken chunks. Ketchup? How dare you? You're not five years old. You're a condiment connoisseur. Kinder Buffalo sauce will do. Squirt that sucker into a Fiestaware mini bowl.

Can you stop there? You should. You probably should, but you don’t. You're a man of the world. You know fusion techniques. You read your fair share of articles about gastronomy. At the restaurant, you tell the waiter, “Fuse my food, good sir, I can take it!

This is why when those nekkid nuggets fry up nice and proper, you plop a dollop of kimchi on your plate. You go full ice cream scoop. Why not?

You grab a child’s TV dinner tray and fall onto the couch. Let’s watch something, you say to yourself, refining. You say this, looking at no one, but raising your eyebrows. Oh, yes. Let’s set the tone.

What pairs well with the spicy chicken slop you’re about to consume? Ah, “Ghostbusters: Answer the Call.” Let’s get this party started, am I right? Let's trainwreck at full speed.

The processed meat cosplaying as chicken is gone, outta here, in minutes. Kimchi? Didn’t stand a chance. And then you look down at that bowl of leftover dippy sauce. You're not a waster. KaBlam! Tostitos. You’re gonna mop them through that sauce. Oh yeah, you are. Guzzled down in no time.

But the avalanche is in full effect now. You can’t stop. Dammnit, you won’t stop.

You pause Kristen Wiig’s best work and shamefully sprint back to the low-lit pantry and pull out a sleeve, yes, a sleeve, of Girl Scout cookies. Shortbread. Classic and classy just like you.

What would go well with that hot sauce you just laid on the foundation of your tummy? Milk. Let's lay down enough dairy to make you lactose intolerant and guarantee a 3:00 am bathroom pit stop. You’ve only gotta go to work tomorrow, and you want something to talk about around the old water cooler. This is your story. This is your share time.

Milk and cookies. Crumbs galore fall on your robe. What goes in your gullet causes gore gut.
With each bite, you tell yourself you're a rebel. You reaffirm body positivity while you swear on your grandmother’s bible that you’re doing over time on the row machine in the morning, as soon as you get off the porcelain throne. You’re disciplined. This meal is the proof of such.

You don't finish the film. Movies these days should really have intermissions.
This makes you think you probably need an intervention.

You climb back up the stairs an hour later. Satisfied and disgusted with yourself.

The alarm goes off at 6:30am.
It’s not as loud as the gurgling coming from your stomach.

You brace for the day. Back downstairs, you pack the kid’s lunch. You fill her water bottle.

You give your innards no quarter - you microwave yesterday's coffee and sip it like the king you are.

And after that first mouthful, you breathe out, “Come at me hump day. Come right at me. Watch what happens.”