We all know I like to eat. Okay, I love to eat (and that's putting it lightly.) But recently, I stopped eating gluten - and ever since, I've felt much better: My pants aren't magically two sizes too small after lunch, and I can sit in my desk chair without unbuttoning my jeans. But this weekend...well, this weekend I did a very bad thing. I ate all the gluten.
All of it. And now I'm wearing elastic-waist pants until I no longer look and feel like Jabba the Hutt.
The backstory: My friend, Angela, was in town this weekend (I live in Atlanta) and we went to Mary Mac's Tea Room. While we filled out our order cards, there was a basket of assorted breads including corn bread, muffins, biscuits, and homemade cinnamon rolls. Obviously, as any person with the ability to taste things would do, I devoured one of each. Oh, and my meal came with a side of fried chicken. I ate that, too.
On Saturday night, we went to a place called Ormsby's where I'm #sorrynotsorry to say I consumed fried fish tacos as well as a little fat corn dog slice. (Sidenote: There was a sign above the juke box at Ormsby's that said that anyone who dared to play Journey or Def Leppard would not only have their song skipped, they'd keep their money. I like their style.)
Sunday afternoon, I succumbed to my animal instincts and actually drove through the McDonalds' drive-thru. I know. I KNOW. Go ahead and judge, but the girl who gave me that incredible greasy bag of love otherwise known as McDonald's fries called me gorgeous and said my hair looked great. So that decision wasn't all bad.
Sunday night, post-fries, I ate S'mores pop-tarts for dinner. And then you know what I did? I ate them for breakfast again the next morning and then I ate them AGAIN for dinner. I was completely out of control and had to be stopped. No more stress-gluten-eating or gluten-feelings-eating.
That is...until I started feeling sorry for myself and ate yet another, brand new serving of fried chicken and stuffing while I sat in a booth with a cracked vinyl seat and talked to my friend Katherine on the phone about bad reality shows. After I basically oompah-loompahed my way home, i.e. ROLLED, I decided Glutenbinge (sounds sort of German, no?) 2014 MUST draw to a close. In fact, it had to, because there were no pop-tarts left.
So, friends, I stand before you, hanging my head in shame. I was weak. I ate something (well, many things) I knew my body didn't like, and it rewarded me with...nothing. No gluten-free prizes, no trophies made of faux gluten, just a short-term carb high that quickly fell off, prompting my shocked body to FIND. ANOTHER. BAGEL. IMMEDIATELY.
Not good. Never again. And get those stinkin' Pop-Tarts away from my face.
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