Tuesday, December 07, 2004

A couple slices of guilt

I went to a "healthy" grocery store at the mall last night to get dinner. I got there around 8 p.m., and all the food looked kind of picked over. So I went and got a couple slices of pizza instead. I've never been the type of guy who takes a napkin and blots the grease off the top of their delicious slices, and last night was no exception. How many calories could that possibly save you? Is it worth eating little bits of napkin stuck to the pizza? I think not.

Anyway, midway through the second slice, I began to get the most peculiar feelings. Guilt. Fear. More guilt. From two slices of pizza? "Maybe this piece of cheese," I thought while the strecthy saltiness of mozzarella spread in my mouth, "will be the one that lodges in my aorta on Mile 13 of the race. Maybe this will be the killer slice."

For the rest of the night, as the pizza slid through my digestive tract, I felt bad. Like I had failed myself. Maybe I better go to the doctor. Not the cardiologist. The endocrinologist. To get my testosterone levels checked.

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