FOOD FOR THOUGHT

My arm was still a little sore from banging it on the ground when I went down during our first exercise. Nancy says it happens all the time, "that's the reason why I do it," she said. That doesn't really take the sting of embarrassment out of the situation.

Today we are discussing nutrition. Oh joy.

"Today," Nancy says pulling the cloth dinner napkins off the mound of mystery on the table, "we are going to talk food. How many of you have eaten one thing on this table just this morning?"

Between the syrup, waffles, doughnuts, and biscuits none of us had our hand down. Nancy smiled her mom-knows-more-than-you-smile. "And how many of you think this is real fuel for your body?"  If doo-doo colored metal chair creaks are crickets the room is full of them.

The crap I eat has got to be 98% processed and 2% something my body would recognize. One night, my body had had enough.

I woke up feeling like I had swallowed 10 matches. Suddenly still shots of those commercials with wincing men and women sitting in front of a half eaten burger or slice of pizza flashed before my eyes.  What the hell am I doing to my body?  I know, I know—channeling the tortoise and all that jazz.  Trust me, I’m not going to start making drastic changes just yet, however, changes do need to be made—especially since I find myself rummaging through the linen closet for any kind of heart burn relief at 2 o’clock in the morning. 

I think we’ve been duped people.  Much like the images we see in magazines not being 100% organic, the food on our plates isn’t all that real either.  That hamburger you are eating for dinner tonight from the drive-thru you just zipped in and out of is more like ground beef lips and knuckles cleaned with ammonia.  Oh yes, they like to trick us by giving you healthier options—but really?  Is that Caesar salad better for you than the ammonia-ground beef-lip-knuckle meat?  Not hardly. 

I’m finding that the things we grew up loving isn’t the same food we grew up eating, and I need to get back to that.  A chicken breast the size of my forearm just isn’t right, and an apple the size of my 9 year olds head isn’t natural.  Yes, yes, I know—it will dip into my pockets just a bit more, but that’s ok with me.  I would rather pay for an apple now (a regular size apple) than pay the repair bill for a hole in my esophagus.

The Runner