Doing My Part
Imma just say it. Things are not good and they continue to deteriorate. My mood this morning can be classified as ‘jerk face.’ I don’t feel good, I didn’t sleep well, and I am acting like a twat. It is possible I may have done this to myself. Let’s evaluate the events of yesterday.
Things began on a note of achievement. I completed a Peloton ride and did not pray for the immediate death of my instructor. I banged out some actual work. I returned text messages. I emptied the dishwasher.
The downhill slide commenced when I ventured to pick up lunch. To bolster his world of winning, the Hot Urologist has initiated a new course of eating. Not quite Keto but packed full of things a normal person couldn’t survive. His regimen is so vegetable heavy that even I, the part-time vegan, have to look away. He is allowed one cheat day a week and yesterday was it. I outfitted in my best Lululemon serial killer lewk, complete with surgical face mask and gloves, and drove to collect.
En route back home I passed the Puffy Muffin.
Puffy Muffin: (noun) Small bakery and restaurant establishment in Brentwood, Tennessee. A slice of high caloric heaven. A balm to alleviate depression.
The red neon sign blazed an S.O.S.
OPEN
Message received. I hung the Baby Benz into the vacant parking lot on two wheels. I was not going to abandon Puffy Muffin in this, their time of need. Plus, I needed to order a cake for me to enjoy on the Hot Urologist’s birthday. I placed the cake order, and solely for fiscal support, purchased 6 giant chocolate chip cookies and an additional $10 cookie decorated with the battle cry, “Nashville Strong.”
As the Hot Urologist inhaled his lunch prize of hot fried chicken and coleslaw, I shoved chocolate chip cookies into my face hole. He looked at me with concern.
“Don’t judge me,” I snapped.
He didn’t, until he glanced back a few seconds later and asked where the Nashville Strong cookie was. I couldn’t say, because it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.
If my guess is remotely accurate, I ingested 200 grams of sugar within a 4 minute period. My vision entered the spin cycle. I dragged my worthless lump of a body to the sofa and passed out. When I came to a couple of hours later, I did not, I repeat, did NOT feel well. Though I did think I could go for another cookie.
The Hot Urologist informed me that he had hidden the Puffy Muffin stash for my own safety. When he went out for a short evening walk, I ransacked the kitchen. I snatched the bag down from his sad little hiding place above the microwave and shoved another cookie into my face, faster this time because who knows when the choco police might breeze through the back door.
Last night I couldn’t sleep. I am not saying I got up in the middle of the night, wrenched the cookie bag from its isolation cabinet around say 2:37 AM, and ate everything that was left while watching a rerun of The Twilight Zone in the basement. I am not saying I didn’t. I am saying things have gone off the rails.
I may not be able to “do math” or “be productive,” but I’ll be damned before I let one of Nashville’s finest businesses flounder during this crisis. My god, I haven’t lost all sense of decency.
I got you Puffy Muffin.
