There is something incredibly therapeutic about consuming string cheese. My guess is that it’s the only time you are encouraged to play with your food, save for peeling fruit. All of our food should be peel-able before eating.
In my 27th year of life, I’ve finally started eating better. I feel this is quite an accomplishment, considering my upbringing AND the fact that I’m doing this now and not 10/20/never years from now.
As a growing boy, my scrawny body worked really hard to absorb every last existing nutrient out of Little Debbie HoHo’s and pop. I grew up on a farm where vegetables were really only consumed 3-4 months out of the year (garden) while the rest of my meals consisted of fatty beef or pork (one time pets of mine) combined with potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes. And soda. Averaging 2-4 a day. My dear readers, this should come as no surprise, especially when you reference the state of Nebraska on this map.
High school and college eating habits were predictable enough: whatever I could afford, meaning fast food (fear not Wendy’s, I’ll never stop loving you…from afar), noodles, or colorless cafeteria fare.
With full time employment and free evenings post-graduation, menus were (still no complaint here) alcohol and late night pizza. I’d actually hope that I’d pass out before finishing the WHOLE pie.
Then came the doctors appointment a few months ago, where I was shocked (!?) to learn I had high cholesterol. This, combined with a less than impressive midsection, led me to believe that perhaps the exercise and healthy-eating habits of others weren’t simply a fad I could continue to ignore.
So now, I run and swim and stick to a depressingly “diet-sounding” diet authored by some healthnut douchebag at Men’s Health. (I really should be getting paid for glowing endorsements like this.)
I am again shocked (!?) to see that it works. I feel betterish, more energeticish...all those things annoyingly fit people say to others. The belly will always need work of course; you can’t expect to work miracles against arteries clogged with 27-year-old high fructose corn syrup.
And let’s be honest, I’d still kill for a slice of pizza and a Mountain Dew.