Yesterday I had a half a package of Oreos with chocolate creme filling. Something snapped at around 2 o’clock, and every ounce of self control I’d developed since I started running stairs eight months ago evaporated with one crispy, creamy nibble. What the diet and exercise experts don’t tell you, conveniently, is that when you undertake a rigorous exercise program the likes you’ve seen in various Rocky sequences, your appetite will grow large enough to require its own seat at the breakfast table. Recommended serving sizes no longer apply. Ziploc snack bags are an insult — you consider THAT a snack? Meals multiply from three times a day to 14 times a day, and entire boxes of Wheaties� get you through that mid-afternoon hump. It’s terribly cumbersome, this ferocious hunger. Not only do they not make grocery carts big enough for people like us, but they also don’t have appropriate check-out lines. Just the regular and 10 items or less lanes?? What about the lanes for 700 items or more? The lanes for people who know they are going to require an hour of checkout time and don’t want to inconvenience any of the other, regular “satisfied” or little appetite sissy people.
Anyway. I stopped at half a package because I knew that if I didn’t, co-workers would find me underneath my desk, dead and bloated with black Shane McGowan Oreo� teeth. I just don’t want to go out that way.
