Self-Deprivation causes much irritation.


Since I expect to find myself shirtless by a pool in the coming months, I’ve joined my fellow huskies and adjusted my meals accordingly.

Yesterday at the sub shop I ordered a turkey salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side. As I dipped my leafy greens I couldn’t avoid the sights and scents of meatballs, pastrami, and melted cheese.

I ate angrily.

Those more disciplined than I see choices like these differently. Heck, some even feel sorry for the people one booth over who are mowing their ways toward pasty arteries.

“I feel so much better when I eat right. All I’ve eaten so far today is two egg whites and an apple.”
“Fucking salad.”
“Don’t be like that. It’s so good for you.”
“I want to kill something … and eat it with a wad of wasabi.”
“We’ll take a long walk this afternoon and splurge a bit for dinner. How about skinless chicken breast and snow peas?”
“No, damn it! I want a big, greasy burger with lots of bacon and cheese. I want waffle-fucking-fries and warm pretzel bites with honey mustard. I want a cookie sandwich of two warm, dark chocolate chip cookies surrounding a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. And, I don’t give a drool if it makes me lumpy.”

The same nonsense goes on with women I’m attracted to, but can’t have. If the fellow next to me is enjoying a tasty brunette with a side of morning nookie, I become angry. If one of my attractive female buddies seeks my advice about men while reminding me that my penis is off-limits, I see red. If my lovely wingwoman has a few too many, which makes her extra touchy/flirty, my insides boil.

I can’t have any.

When the next day rolls around, I don’t look back and take pride in my discipline. No. I deal with the woulda-coulda-shoulda song pounding in my head. So, I’m fat and fucked either way: I’m either mad at myself for gorging like a beast, or my empty stomach is full of regret about what should have been.

When I get to this point it’s time to splurge or someone is going to suffer as I purge my frustration. Tonight, instead of veggies, hummus, salmon salad, and light beer, I’m going to have French-Freaking-Onion soup with extra cheese, gnocchi with thick, zesty paste, and a warm, chocolate dessert with a lump of creamy frozen stuff. Heck, I may even have it with a bucket of Baileys and a woman far too young to fondle my sagginess. Good day.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.