By Kristan Tate
It was about 9pm on a weekday, and I was eating Pop-TartsⓇ. My roommate walks in and, with righteous concern, questioned, “Is that your dinner?” This wasn’t the first time I had substituted mediocre sugar-fudge for a meal, and it wouldn’t be the last, so I reflexively answered, “Yep.” “Why?” he continued. With laughter in my heart and sludge in my arteries I admitted, “Why? Because I don’t care about myself.”
Now before you call the suicide hot-line, let me clarify that last line. I DO care about myself. I wouldn’t be bankrupting my parents by going to a top-tier engineering university if I didn’t. What I DON’T care about, more specifically, is my body’s inability to keep up with my steady diet of unpronounceable chemicals. It’s the 21st century, body, you’re going to have to get used to me swapping ice cream for broccoli. Look, it’s not my fault I’m not constantly surrounded by fruits, vegetables, and cereals. AND it’s not my fault that I keep shoving confections into my face-hole like it’s the Delorean and Marty’s about to french-kiss his own daughter.
Ok, ok, maybe I have a slight problem. But it’s not entirely my fault, seriously. I’m the skinniest person I know, and my body has looked like this since my early days in the womb. I’m constantly kept in the dark about how detrimental my habits are, because of the difficulty involved in gauging how fat my inner fat person is when he doesn’t show up on a mirror.
So here’s the good news: I realize that it’s a bad idea to treat my body like it’s a piñata and my son’s birthday is tomorrow, I get that. So I am (as slowly as possible) becoming more health conscious. But I hope it goes without saying that I’ll never give up sweets indefinitely. It’s just not economical. We all have to do our part to help keep jobs in America, right? I mean, I’m nothing if not patriotic. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?