Monday, February 21, 2011

The Cake for Dinner Revolution

Cookie Monster is right. Cookies are a sometimes food. Eating sugar and saturated fat in moderation along side 20 minutes of physical activi....zzzzzzzzzzzzz. Sorry. I nodded off there out of sheer boredom. It's just that I've heard it so many times before and hearing things that I'm supposed to do but don't want to do doesn't inspire me to do them. If that makes sense. How about some advice I'd actually want to follow? Here it is: sometimes you should eat cake for dinner.

...maybe not for Thanksgiving dinner...

I eat cake a lot. I am not fat (my bum-to-waist ratio is a little inconvenient for jeans shopping but I maintain that it's more to do with genetics. I'm pretty sure that the medical term for it is Camerino Tuchus, colloquially known as Ghetto Booty). My Body Mass Index is what it should be, my hair is long and healthy and I'm pale but hydrated. On a normal day in the absence of an occurrence of my mild superpower, if I listen closely I can hear exactly what my body is hungry for. I have a suspicion that feeding yourself what your body needs is a healthier lifestyle than constantly denying yourself. (What is my mild superpower, you ask? I get sudden and intense cravings for very specific foods. Like this past Sunday while still lying in bed, I was struck with a sudden hankering for a big bowl of Vietnamese soup with chicken, vegetables and thin egg noodles from Pho Bac in Chinatown in Montreal. I swear I've only been to that place twice in my life and the last time was probably around 4 years ago.)

Sometimes life pelts lemons at your head. For example, oh I don't know, your car might fail the NCT and you get clamped while at work, trying to earn enough money to pay for the repairs. So you pay the clamp release fee out of your rent account, which contains only exactly the amount needed for your rent, which is scheduled to automatically leave said account the next business day. You camp out at the bank the next day until they open their doors and you manage to deposit the missing money in time. Phew. Catastrophe avoided. What a lovely day! La la la. Life is beautiful. CRUNCH. That is the sound of an absent minded driver reversing over your precious Vespa. You aren't hurt. You managed to hop off in time. You just got a fright and start to weep. But the volume+amount of sobbing and hyperventilation concerns passers by and they gather around. Everyone is staring. You washed you hair this morning but didn't dry it before putting your helmet on. It's now half dry into a half Afro. You had ran off to the bank in the middle of bakery class and you are still in your big ugly uniform complete with apron, hounds tooth trousers (which accentuate the Ghetto Booty) and steel toed white loafers (Dr. Evil style). All the drunks on the road think it's hilarious and come over to stare, pretending they are interested in buying your Vespa just to get a closer look at the state of you. The DRUNKS think YOU look a state. It's days like this that it's OK to listen to your body when your body says, “I want cake for dinner”. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm sure the first person who declared Breakfast for Dinner to be a good idea got funny looks from the drunks too. 

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