Eat Me Outta House and Home

Probably compared to many people—and almost certainly in comparison to most American males my age—I’m pretty active. I ride my bike all over the place, do yoga almost every morning, stand at my desk when I write, and pace pretty consistently whenever I’m in front of a classroom.

But from time to time—and this, generally is one of those—all I really want to do is sit around (and stand, usually over the sink) and eat. I feel endlessly hungry and can endlessly glut my maw in the vain attempt to fill up my piehole with one tasty vittle after another.

For instance, Monday, which was a holiday, I basically strolled around my house fixing myself one thing after another—some toast, a cheese sandwich, a helping of Yakisoba noodles, another cheese sandwich, a bowl of granola, couple of carrots, the dregs from a bag of chips, and so on and so on, prompting Jen, who couldn’t help but observe my relentless consumption, to allow that I was scaring her.

Heck, I was scaring myself, but that didn’t stop me. I just kept wandering about, sampling the many delights of our pantry, from some leftover rice to a crust of bread to a bit of Parmesan still on the rind, to a handful of walnuts in a bag on the shelf.

Now, granted, this was in part influenced by my decision to skip lunch and dinner the day before, dining only on a bud-butter oatmeal cookie that lasted me all afternoon and evening, but still, everything seemed tasty, even that container of yogurt that had been sitting in the back of the refrigerator since December.

Fortunately, not all the calories found their way to my belly, although plenty, I’m sure, and just waiting around my midsection to start building new wrinkles between my navel and sternum.

I’ll worry about that more as summer approaches; right now, though, I’m wearing three shirts and getting set to make a sandwich.