I am about to say something probably no one has ever said before. I am about to commit blasphemy. No one will be able to relate to this and I run the risk of alienating my few readers, but the urge I have to get this off my chest happens to outweigh my desperate need for approval.
There is entirely too much ice cream in this house, a fact that stresses me out to no end.
Well, not just ice cream. Our kitchen is overstocked with food in general, but I consider ice cream to be more important because I’m told it has a tendency to melt in 100 degree weather—there won’t be electricity to keep the fridge or AC running after we leave for our trip soon. Notice how I’m not giving out the specific date of departure in case someone takes the opportunity to break into our house.
Unless he’s going to help me finish all these frozen foods. In which case, I suppose that might be helpful.
It’s too bad I don’t trust anyone, otherwise I wouldn’t have to finish all this junk on my own.
And what perfectly horrible timing. I recently signed a Health Contract drafted by yours truly—the things I do for this Health credit—in which I pledged to record everything I ate in hopes that seeing a tangible list of all that atrociously unhealthy food would deter me from eating so much junk in the future.
The worst part of this situation isn’t that I’m afraid of breaking the contract; as a kid, I used to sign contracts with my mom for years until she finally figured out my promises were worth absolutely nothing. It’s that my Health Contract actually WORKS, just not in the way it was supposed to.
I was hoping a list could guilt me into eating healthier. Unfortunately, I forgot to take into account the fact that I possess no conscience whatsoever.
See, I thought things were going well at first. I would have second thoughts before third popsicles. My hand would tremble when fumbling to open Doritos bags (although that may have been more “warning sign of a stroke” than hesitation).
But while my daily consumption lists were shortening, my diet wasn’t getting any healthier, which led me to the realization that I wasn’t hesitating to eat because of guilt. I was hesitating because I didn’t feel like going through all the trouble of getting up, retrieving my notebook, finding a pencil, and adding another item to the list. So, to circumvent my unwillingness to get off my butt, I started to just keep eating Cheetos, for example, so I would only have to write one item down. Technically, my subconscious must have justified to herself, that’s lessening the junk food eaten. Lessening the variety eaten, anyway.
Apparently I am motivated not by my morals or interest in my own well-being, but by my inherent laziness.
So of course it would be now, when I’m trying to make myself feel remorse for the trash I eat, that I am burdened with three tubs of ice cream and everything else in my fridge that needs to be cleaned out.
I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is from the gobs of mango sorbet that I accidentally choked on a couple seconds ago or from actual tears. It’s probably both.