It was around noon that my wife texted today.
“I think I mentioned last night that I will be spending the evening at the library working on a term paper. You are on your own for dinner.”
I read it twice just to make sure I knew exactly what text had been messaged to me. I would be on my own for dinner. That meant that tonight was a wild card night. Anything could happen and there would be no wiser half there telling me not to do this or eat that.
Of course, I have no idea why this made me excited. If I were to tell my wife that I wanted to eat a large pile of garbage smothered in cheese sauce, not only would she say she didn’t care, but she would likely encourage me. “You have eaten very healthy lately. If you want cheese garbage, go right ahead.” In fact, most of the time I am the one saying that we should be eating something healthy and then reiterating my stance that just because a doctor said chocolate can be healthy does not mean we should shove whole bars of it in our faces.
For some reason, though, being on my own for dinner gave me such a thrill of control. Maybe I would eat a whole pizza. Or I could just get a bag of cheeseburgers and sit there shovel burger after burger into my facehole until my jaw was tired of chewing. I could finally live out my childhood dream of eating only cookies for dinner if I wanted.
Then the implications of my decision-making set in. Sure, I could do all of those things. I could do them all at one time. Then, though, that one night of sheer gluttonous desire could be the night that pushes my body over the edge. My internal organs would all stop working as I slipped into a coma brought on by trans fats and carbs. I’m not 100% certain I know what either of those things are, but by all accounts they are not great.
My inner dialogue was out of control.
“Maybe I should just have a salad,” My reasonable half thought. “Salad sounds good and if I put some spinach in it… I mean spinach is a superfood…”
“No!” My gluttonous side screamed. “You can eat anything you want! Anything! Whatever it is, it should not involve superfoods.”
“Not even blueberries? I like blueberries.”
“Fine!” I sighed back at my more reasonable half. “Blueberries are fine. You could also have sweet potatoes, but only if they’re in French fry form.”
My reasonable and my gluttonous halves went back and forth for what seemed like hours. It was an epic battle of wills, two evenly pitted sides making equally nonsensical points. The debate could have gone on for hours, maybe even days. By then, of course, my free dinner would have passed and I would have eaten nothing at all. I had no idea what I was going to do.
That’s why I decided to buy and eat a sandwich. A normal sandwich that I have ordered and eaten many times. And it was very good, but not too good. Just the right amount of good.
I should ask my wife to never skip dinner again. It’s just too stressful.