There are times you just have to give up the greens

There are times when I am in such a good mood, I almost feel guilty.
I’d like to say my recreation time with Pete is responsible for that, but even the superpower persuasions can’t take credit for my good mood all the time.
Health sciences would suggest it’s the endorphins brewed out of a regular workout at the gym. Come to think of it, I do feel pretty darn good after that. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that good after any other activity that causes my heart to race (sorry, honey).
But I still don’t think that was behind my good mood a few days ago. Indeed, it was all because I fulfilled a hankering for a moveable feast—none of which appears on the Canada Food Guide.
I was in overdrive at my gym workout on Friday because I knew the weekend was going to be diet-brutal. I’d been a good little girl for long enough and it was my turn to walk the forbidden aisle at the grocery store—arms outstretched as I excavated fat-friendly munchies into my shopping cart.
It was one of those innings when all manner of green, leafy, or good-for-me took a distant back seat to junk food.
I confined my frenzy to the shed, so as not to attract the attention of the dreaded “vegetable police”—an entity which has had as much influence on me as Grimm’s fairy tales did in my childhood.
Still, I was plagued by the family canines who imitated the Hounds of the Baskervilles and used all their brain power to try and lure me outside with my junk food collection.
I also managed to deter Pete from dipping into my chip bag by encouraging long, distracting conversations about whether or not we should put the shed up for sale.
In Ireland, for instance, a shed measuring just 16’x13’ was sold for $167,820 (Cdn). It had a tar paper roof, used bottled gas for cooking, and backed onto a county railroad line.
With the size and amenities in our shed, we’d surely get twice the purchase price of my Irish cousins, right honey?
Contemplation of the issue was long enough to let me finish off more than three-quarters of the 300g bag, a tub of sour cream, and any chance of finding enough water to re-hydrate my system from all that salt consumption.
If there was such an entity as “vegetable police” patrolling my neck of the woods, I would have been arrested for grievous non-compliance and hence writing this column from a jail cell for salt and vinegar chip addicts.
Instead, my punishment was repeated chapstick applications applied gingerly to the corners of my mouth after shovelling in potato chips bigger than the size of a plate.
What a way to cure a craving. If I smell another salt and vinegar chip for months, it will be too soon. It was back to spinach, lettuce, Brussels sprouts, and cucumbers.
Oh brother.
Doug Larson penned, “Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon.”
Heck, if that were true, I’d live forever.

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