I’m up at the crack of arse, trying to get my blog writing out of the way for the day so I can enjoy a few leisure moments with Wifesy. When Wifesy and I leisure, we usually try to get our workout in and eat healthy for most of the day. Eating healthy means juicing once or twice and at one point eating a salad with some kind of protein. Then we run around doing fun things – movies, crazy harvest-halloween-ish festivals, and just chillaxin’.
Now, this isn’t ALWAYS the case.
Sometimes we go hog wild. And the one who goes the hog wildest out of our dynamic duo is MOI. For example, Wifesy’s surgery day. I wrote in the morning. Wifesy gets called into surgery. I clean the house from top to bottom and then Wifesy picks me up and we hustled off to a comedy show of mine. It was a great line up and a completely awesome show from beginning to end. I had been looking forward to it and Wifesy is a huge comedy fan (of good comedy, that is) so there was no way we were going to miss it.
That day Wifesy and I had only eaten breakfast. Though I had a vegetable juice right before we ran out to the show.
Naturally, after the show, we were famished. So, a group of us (comedians and friends of comedians) headed to a little joint around the corner that serves bar food. Wifesy and I got the nachos. I had a few beers. I wanted french fries. Wifesy was like, “No! Don’t eat the damn fries. We’re getting nachos.” She is almost always more sensible then me.
I reluctantly said, “Okay.” However, when my friend’s fries arrived I proceeded to eat all of them…like it was my job. Then another woman at the table offered hers up and it was all over. It was goddermned FRY-ARMAGEDDON. I literally felt like I was in a foxhole and they wouldn’t stop shooting. Fry in the mouth. Hand goes down to rest on table. Mind gets itchy. Hand back to fry basket. New fry back in mouth and repeat.
I looked at my friend and said, “I can’t stop eating them. I can’t. The whole experience for me is how it must be for those whores on the Bunny Ranch…it just doesn’t even feel good anymore. You know what I mean? I’m like Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball feckin’ the shite out of that boney Billy Bob Thorton and I JUST WANT TO FEEL GOOD!” With that, I jammed a few more fries in my mouth just to make my point.
My friend laughed. I stole another fry and proceeded to stab myself with it.
I suppose you could say that I just don’t do well when denied.
Tell me I can’t have something and I want it all the more. Tell me everything is on the table and I just don’t gravitate towards the naughty stuff. It’s like I don’t care about it when I know I can have it.
The mind is so weird.
So, I’m on this kick of increasing as much positive food (and thought for that matter) into my life. My hope is that the positive stuff will eventually elbow the crap right out of the leftover spaces.
But, it ain’t always easy. I mean sometimes people order goddermned french fries when I’m already having nachos when really I wanted fries.
Wifesy doesn’t get this. She looks at me as if to say, “WTF, we’re already having the nachos.”
Oddly, I know this has always been part of my psychology. I’ve always needed a release valve. As a kid, when I was doing a timed reading comprehension assignment, when the timer went off, I would take my pencil and run it furiously over everything I had just written. It looked like an assignment created by a mini-Unabomber. I don’t know why a teacher or school official didn’t take one look at my notebook and go, “What in the hell is this kid doing?” Sometimes a day off the regularly scheduled programming feels like this to me. It feels like scribbling all over my good work and it feels damn good. It literally makes me go, “Ahhhhh.”
Pre-Wifesy, I had a particular release valve habit.
I’d usually do well during the week, but then on Sunday – I’d give myself one day.
During that day off, I wouldn’t leave the couch. I’d watch nothing, but movies and HBO and I’d make an elaborate dinner and polish off a bottle of wine. Sometimes with a friend or two, sometimes alone. I always felt like I needed that time. The “hog wild” time, specified and short, always helped me to get through the rest of the week.
So, I don’t know if I’m ever willing to give up my “hog wild” days entirely. But, I do need to manage them, otherwise the fries get pillaged and the hogs start to graze in other people’s pastures. Then the neighbors get angry. “Why in the feck is your hog on my lawn?”
Wait, do hogs graze? It doesn’t matter. You know what I mean.
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