that year, in early in January, the famous Miser brothers made one of their annoying little deals that they make from time to time. the two agreed that Heat Miser would let his brother, Snow Miser, put the freeze on Southtown that Monday morning (itty-bitty snowflakes, schools closed for days and all). and in return, Heat Miser would be allowed to throw down some sweaty shenannigans on one of the northern fly-over states come summertime (and probably, no one would care). and so, the stage was set.
does anybody know what 25°F with a wind chill advisory feels like to an Atlantan? 25°F-ingFreezing is what. i assure you, it is not pretty. at that kind of temperature, even the insides of office buildings here feel like absolute zero.
so, bundled up as i was in my frozen-tundra attire, barely able to move from the sheer bulk of it all, imagine my unadulterated glee when the office manager sent out an email asking for Top Spice lunch orders if you wanted in. hot Thai delivered to my desk? that meant i wouldn’t have to put on yet another layer and brave the elements for pre-meeting nourishment. jackpot.
i perused the menu, trying to be mindful that i would need to log every bite on MFP, later — when the warm glow of a perfect curry radiated from my belly all the way to my fingertips, allowing me to nimbly type in the damage. stay away from fried anything, coconut anything and cashews was the plan. what could go wrong?
that tub of takeout pulled a full-on sneak attack on me is what. basil chicken, she said. i won’t eat the rice, she said. next thing i know, i’m having a 600 calorie lunch. but i didn’t actually know it until dinner time, because i got stuck in meetings for the following five hours and didn’t get to log anything until i got home (yeah, yeah, check before you eat and all). sigh.
at that point, i needed at least one two glasses of wine to cope with this ridiculous realization. and then i envisioned the calories adding up cartoon-style on an old-fashioned calculator, cha-chinging with each accumulation of 100. then i kind of let the rest of the evening go to hell.
two lessons learned: never even take the first bite of the rice, and never assume the sauce can’t be that bad. also, as much as you can’t stand the thought of another. effing. salad. that is probably the best way to go. cold be damned, warm your cockles with thoughts of how virtuous you’ll feel afterwards. (is that vomit in my mouth from just having written that? christ. do i have to recount those calories?)
here’s hoping for a warmer, better tomorrow!