Thursday, November 20, 2003
Here's what I'm sure of.
Looking back upon my last few posts, I can see that my mood of late has been a bit . . . pensive. I guess about all I have to say about that is . . . yeah.
You see, ladies and gentlemen, when you come to these times in your life when you've reached the edge of that plateau in front of you . . . it's times like these when you need to solidify things a bit. Make it clear in your head, just what you're sure of. So what is it that I am sure of right now?
I'm glad you asked.
I like to eat. Oh. Sounds so simple to you, does it? Well decry me for my simplicity, but you're the one still reading. See, I'm guessing, based on all the "running" remarks I have in here, that you thought I'd say I was sure of running.
Hardly.
You see, ladies and gentlemen, I like to have something over on my friends now and then. I like to be capable of surprise. Yesterday I read some test results that said I wasn't a big risk taker. Big news . . . YET I can point to several instances of risk-taking in my life. The evidence is there, no need to bring it up. Just swim with me, and accept it as a given. It is in this limited yet fully-acknowledged spirit of risk that I enjoy surprise.
With that given in mind, if my friends knew how many miles I was running, weekly, or how long I've been running, consecutively, they'd imagine the Will from several years ago. The Will they knew. They called him Bill. But the surprise would be on me now, as I would disappoint them. Ah, yes "Bill" is no longer, and even with miles and consistency he won't come back. That's right -- I'm still slow. Sure, I've lost weight. I look normal again. But put me in a race, and I'd still run with the high school girls. I'm no faster than when I was loosening the belt buckle and eating eggs and salsa at 11:00 at night.
So, no, running's not on the list. But eating is. Running, I suppose, is attached to the list, because it allows me to eat without guilt. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.
So what is the extent of this love for consumption? Glad you asked.
I make no boasts, no false leaps of faith. I could not win a contest. For example, and I think many would agree with me, that if I were to attempt to eat as much pizza as possible in a sitting that I would only manage, at best, a measly six plates (which comprises four pieces of pizza per plate, and includes a bowl of canned peaches, a pickle, and some fluff). Six plates -- stunningly average at best, by the standard.
Yet I do not measure my love for eating by such a standard. My qualm with such inane contests rests with three words in that last paragraph: "in a sitting". You see, ladies and gentlemen, great love does not require mass consumption. Rather, I find the two contradictory. After such consumption, the aftereffects are so unsettling, so discomforting, that the love that spurred the mass consumption is dimmed. Oh yes.
My measure, then, is not mass consumption. Nor is it quality. How could I, mere data entry slug, perpetual student, amateur putter-together-of-words-guy define how much I love something? Foolish! No, friends, my standard is frequency.
Strike that.
My standard is desired frequency.
Have you ever had anyone ask you, "Are you hungry?" Have you always wanted to respond, "Yes," even if you were not hungry? Have you ever finished a meal and thought, "I'm good for another! Yep! Right now!" Have you ever entertained disgruntled thoughts at the small sizes of plates these days? Have you scoffed at criticism of eating midnight snacks? Have you ever had someone say to you, "But we just ATE!" Have you ever told the person dishing you up from the entree that's too hot to pass, "Keep it comin'?" Have you ever responded to the question, "Chocolate or vanilla?" with "Both please!"? Have you ever been accused of "grazing"?
If you answered yes to all of the above questions . . . chances are, we'd get along pretty darn well, you and I. (Unless of course there was some sort of food shortage striking the area and we were the last two people standing in the grocery store.)
I graze proudly. And folks, there's certain food I can graze on ANY TIME, ALL THE TIME:
1.) Cheeseburgers. And by the way. Who the hell, when faced with a choice between hamburger and cheeseburger, turns down the cheese? Huh. Now that I don't get. Did mom ever say to you, perhaps as the car was passing McDonald's, "If you had to eat burgers every day, you'd get sick of it!"? That's OK -- I believe my mom said this too. Well, ma: you lied. Because for me that statement holds no more truth than, "Johnny, mom says if you be the Chinese man for too long that you stay that way!" It just isn't true. Not for me, anyway. I could eat cheeseburgers every day of the week, twice daily (and maybe even for breakfast a few of those days). Moreover: I would look forward to that cheeseburger every day.
2.) Fries. American, cottage, French, seasoned, curly, I don't give a damn. If they're done right, I'll eat fries with every meal. They ran out of burgers, hot dogs, water, oxygen, I don't care. I'm fine with the fries.
3.) Mashed potatoes. I posted a while ago after a large intake of potatoes I had on a Sunday night. Like a junkie with crack, I cannot stay away from the soft, mashed glory that this dish holds for me. Hot, cold, plain, gravy, seasoned, onioned, twice baked, cheesed, wow. Even as my stomach was filling that night -- I could feel the top layer of potato press apprehensively against the bottom of my esophagus -- I just kept 'em coming.
4.) Fish fry. In this category I merely stand in evidence of the Friday night tradition. Stomachs should be larger. Obesity statistics be damned.
5.) Pizza. What? Did you expect lima beans? Sometimes I cut the pie into squares to prolong the pleasure. Smaller pieces. But sometimes, if the pizza's big enough, I'll cut it like a pie, and rip through. In my pure world -- some call it heaven, some Nirvana -- there would be pizza placed all throughout my house. When finished and full from my meal, I would simply walk past the nightstand and have another slice when the mood struck me. Grab a piece sitting on the dining room table. Extra pepperoni hidden behind the television.
6.) TOTS. The motherload. The food that I only stop eating if there are no more left to eat in the house. TOTS best represent my grazing lifestyle preferences: when I am full, if they are still there to tempt me, I no longer operate by the standard three meals, sleep, repeat. Oh no. That meal that contained the TOTS? That (assuming there was an unending supply of TOTS available) just gets extended into one, monstrous, non-stop meal. My mouth sucks in the spit as I type this. Dear God. Some Lawry's, maybe some shredded cheese, full canisters of ketchup and ranch dressing for ample dipping pleasure: life does not get better than that.
When people get all "philosophical" they talk about the meaning of life. Talk soon turns to Eastern religion, the mystics, Buddha. Well I don't know Eastern philosophy, I'm a Nietzsche-Postmodernist guy. But if Buddha had all the answers, and he was not exactly a guy to miss many meals . . . don't you think he was onto something?
You see, ladies and gentlemen, when you come to these times in your life when you've reached the edge of that plateau in front of you . . . it's times like these when you need to solidify things a bit. Make it clear in your head, just what you're sure of. So what is it that I am sure of right now?
I'm glad you asked.
I like to eat. Oh. Sounds so simple to you, does it? Well decry me for my simplicity, but you're the one still reading. See, I'm guessing, based on all the "running" remarks I have in here, that you thought I'd say I was sure of running.
Hardly.
You see, ladies and gentlemen, I like to have something over on my friends now and then. I like to be capable of surprise. Yesterday I read some test results that said I wasn't a big risk taker. Big news . . . YET I can point to several instances of risk-taking in my life. The evidence is there, no need to bring it up. Just swim with me, and accept it as a given. It is in this limited yet fully-acknowledged spirit of risk that I enjoy surprise.
With that given in mind, if my friends knew how many miles I was running, weekly, or how long I've been running, consecutively, they'd imagine the Will from several years ago. The Will they knew. They called him Bill. But the surprise would be on me now, as I would disappoint them. Ah, yes "Bill" is no longer, and even with miles and consistency he won't come back. That's right -- I'm still slow. Sure, I've lost weight. I look normal again. But put me in a race, and I'd still run with the high school girls. I'm no faster than when I was loosening the belt buckle and eating eggs and salsa at 11:00 at night.
So, no, running's not on the list. But eating is. Running, I suppose, is attached to the list, because it allows me to eat without guilt. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.
So what is the extent of this love for consumption? Glad you asked.
I make no boasts, no false leaps of faith. I could not win a contest. For example, and I think many would agree with me, that if I were to attempt to eat as much pizza as possible in a sitting that I would only manage, at best, a measly six plates (which comprises four pieces of pizza per plate, and includes a bowl of canned peaches, a pickle, and some fluff). Six plates -- stunningly average at best, by the standard.
Yet I do not measure my love for eating by such a standard. My qualm with such inane contests rests with three words in that last paragraph: "in a sitting". You see, ladies and gentlemen, great love does not require mass consumption. Rather, I find the two contradictory. After such consumption, the aftereffects are so unsettling, so discomforting, that the love that spurred the mass consumption is dimmed. Oh yes.
My measure, then, is not mass consumption. Nor is it quality. How could I, mere data entry slug, perpetual student, amateur putter-together-of-words-guy define how much I love something? Foolish! No, friends, my standard is frequency.
Strike that.
My standard is desired frequency.
Have you ever had anyone ask you, "Are you hungry?" Have you always wanted to respond, "Yes," even if you were not hungry? Have you ever finished a meal and thought, "I'm good for another! Yep! Right now!" Have you ever entertained disgruntled thoughts at the small sizes of plates these days? Have you scoffed at criticism of eating midnight snacks? Have you ever had someone say to you, "But we just ATE!" Have you ever told the person dishing you up from the entree that's too hot to pass, "Keep it comin'?" Have you ever responded to the question, "Chocolate or vanilla?" with "Both please!"? Have you ever been accused of "grazing"?
If you answered yes to all of the above questions . . . chances are, we'd get along pretty darn well, you and I. (Unless of course there was some sort of food shortage striking the area and we were the last two people standing in the grocery store.)
I graze proudly. And folks, there's certain food I can graze on ANY TIME, ALL THE TIME:
1.) Cheeseburgers. And by the way. Who the hell, when faced with a choice between hamburger and cheeseburger, turns down the cheese? Huh. Now that I don't get. Did mom ever say to you, perhaps as the car was passing McDonald's, "If you had to eat burgers every day, you'd get sick of it!"? That's OK -- I believe my mom said this too. Well, ma: you lied. Because for me that statement holds no more truth than, "Johnny, mom says if you be the Chinese man for too long that you stay that way!" It just isn't true. Not for me, anyway. I could eat cheeseburgers every day of the week, twice daily (and maybe even for breakfast a few of those days). Moreover: I would look forward to that cheeseburger every day.
2.) Fries. American, cottage, French, seasoned, curly, I don't give a damn. If they're done right, I'll eat fries with every meal. They ran out of burgers, hot dogs, water, oxygen, I don't care. I'm fine with the fries.
3.) Mashed potatoes. I posted a while ago after a large intake of potatoes I had on a Sunday night. Like a junkie with crack, I cannot stay away from the soft, mashed glory that this dish holds for me. Hot, cold, plain, gravy, seasoned, onioned, twice baked, cheesed, wow. Even as my stomach was filling that night -- I could feel the top layer of potato press apprehensively against the bottom of my esophagus -- I just kept 'em coming.
4.) Fish fry. In this category I merely stand in evidence of the Friday night tradition. Stomachs should be larger. Obesity statistics be damned.
5.) Pizza. What? Did you expect lima beans? Sometimes I cut the pie into squares to prolong the pleasure. Smaller pieces. But sometimes, if the pizza's big enough, I'll cut it like a pie, and rip through. In my pure world -- some call it heaven, some Nirvana -- there would be pizza placed all throughout my house. When finished and full from my meal, I would simply walk past the nightstand and have another slice when the mood struck me. Grab a piece sitting on the dining room table. Extra pepperoni hidden behind the television.
6.) TOTS. The motherload. The food that I only stop eating if there are no more left to eat in the house. TOTS best represent my grazing lifestyle preferences: when I am full, if they are still there to tempt me, I no longer operate by the standard three meals, sleep, repeat. Oh no. That meal that contained the TOTS? That (assuming there was an unending supply of TOTS available) just gets extended into one, monstrous, non-stop meal. My mouth sucks in the spit as I type this. Dear God. Some Lawry's, maybe some shredded cheese, full canisters of ketchup and ranch dressing for ample dipping pleasure: life does not get better than that.
When people get all "philosophical" they talk about the meaning of life. Talk soon turns to Eastern religion, the mystics, Buddha. Well I don't know Eastern philosophy, I'm a Nietzsche-Postmodernist guy. But if Buddha had all the answers, and he was not exactly a guy to miss many meals . . . don't you think he was onto something?
