Eating Out

I try to eat healthy. Really. But since I travel for work, I am frequently faced with eating restaurant food, which we all know is high in calories, low in fiber, and is generally loaded with saturated fat, sodium, and carbohydrates. Whatever.

So I try to avoid deep-fried food (unless the restaurant specializes in Fish and Chips), and I stay away from processed meats (yet I admit to a fondness for sandwiches made with Italian salami, Capicola, or pepperoni).  

And what’s wrong with pizza, anyway? The way I see it, pizza’s a perfect meal: it’s convenient, contains all the major food groups, and is good for breakfast the next day besides. Better yet, it goes great with beer.

But as I approach fifty, I’m at least thinking that I should eat more fruits and vegetables, even though apples are only good with caramel, carrots are best served with Ranch dip, and broccoli smells like a fart.

I’d eat more salads, but the Nordic Warrior Queen has ruined whatever self-congratulation I might feel for ordering a big, healthy bowl of lettuce. She’s the biggest fan of that quack who wrote “Eat This, Don’t Eat That.” What a spoilsport he is.

She even went so far as to tell me that a salad might be worse for you than a hamburger. What? That’s impossible.  

But she insists: it’s something to do with the fat content in the dressing. She says that if I’m going to order a salad, I should ask for low-fat dressing, and get it on the side.

Why would I do this? Would I ask for a hamburger made from tofu? A turkey pizza? Mac and Cheese made with soy milk? I think not.

So while I was sitting at a restaurant last night, I texted my daughter, just to double-check this ridiculous notion. She, of course, backed up her mother. “Check the nutrition card,” she suggested, to which I reminded her that I’m not so great at reading directions. Worse, when I pushed her on it, she gave me attitude. “Whatever, Dad.”

Kids these days.

But I can dismiss her twisted way of thinking, since I know she’s influenced by the Burris Effect, meaning that (thanks to that Homeless Woman) my daughter is now inclined to eat such non-foods as asparagus, Brussels sprouts, tofu, and garbanzo beans.

That, and she is currently “building a baby,” so her mental capacity is somewhat reduced.  

I see it like this: I can eat like a triathlon runner, exercise like Jack LaLane (now dead), and teetotal like Brigham Young, and still I might be struck by a schoolbus tomorrow, contract a rare and fatal carcinoma, be stabbed by a mass-murderer or shot by a gun-toting high school kid, or simply despair at my strict regime and end up taking a big swig of Jim Jones Kool-Aid.

The end could be just around the corner. Who really knows?

Despite my wife’s advice, I ordered the salad. It has to be better for you than a bacon burger with garlic fries, right?

Besides, I really like salads; with all that Crispy Chicken they put on the top, not to mention the croutons. It was a little dry, so I had to order an extra helping of Chipotle-Ranch dressing, but I had them bring it on the side. I’m careful with what I eat.