The 25% Cheater
I have confession.
…and what’s worse?
I love it.
Mind you, I only do so on the weekends, which is what I call it my 25%. This percentage represents the amount of time that I cheat in a week. I frolic with ham and cheese buttery croissants, pour myself an adrenal zapping large cup of coffee and fondle my tall glass of orange juice that’s the store bought kind with lots of pulp versus freshly squeezed. And while I’m sure my Nutrition colleagues would gasp, I believe that there is something to be said about allowing yourself some good quality cheating time. Because for some, being good all the time feels like living in a state of deprivation. And who can argue that we’re drawn to the pleasures of being bad sometimes. It’s the reason why we went against our father’s authority when we dated the bad ass that rode a motorcycle and had a pierced tongue. It’s the reason why we carried around a fake i.d., or why today we’ll sneak in a chocolate bar when we know we shouldn’t. It just feels so damn good. So instead of fighting it, I say, go with it but wait for the weekend. Roll around in bed with it and tell yourself you deserve it versus punishing yourself and being riddled with guilt.
So I say, become The 25% Cheater.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like sharing my cheating time with someone of interest as I wear his button shirt down at the kitchen table, take a bite out of his croissant and pass him the sports section as I hog the lifestyle and entertainment section.
So this morning I picked up a croissant, got the paper, went to my favourite coffee shop and ordered a large bucket of medium roast coffee to go. I warmed up the buttery croissant, made a plain omelette just the way I like it and served it with a heaping pile of greens.
Granted, I would have loved to share this moment, but I was okay flying solo during my cheating whim. Which brings me to another confession.
Sweetness hasn’t just permeating my taste buds these days, they’ve been swirling around in my brain about someone like a cotton candy machine. Yes, a total male confection that makes life sweet yet sticky at times and pleasurable yet difficult.
Who is he?
My lips are sealed…for now.