The Guilt of Pleasure
Guilty pleasures? Wow! There's so many avenues I could take to define just what a guilty pleasure is. The Catholic altar boys with hair parts down the middle (I love that joke), the construction workers that I see leering at the college girls each morning, wearing bikini underwear with spandex (ewww). What is my guilty pleasure?
Food. I'm 20-30 lbs overweight, I rarely exercise (although after BWP, when I have more time and energy, Billie will become my new best friend - ever tried Tae Bo?), and I always eat to excess. I can't help it. The sensuousness as drops of gravy caress me while rolling down my chins. The pheromones released by Whoppers that tickle my nose and reel me in like a prize-winning marlin. The exotic beauty that suffuses my sight as a Krispi Kream glazed is lovingly placed in the tray, calling my name with an erotic voice that promises me all the pleasure I can imagine. Oh for the silky texture of yeast rolls: their hot, buttery, melt in your mouth taste, the soft give you feel as you gently run your finger tips down their long, vivacious, and soft curves, the arousing scent of perfume labeled Blue Bonnet (available at fine grocery store dairy sections around the world), seeing their eroticism as they gently unwrap themselves from the protective napkin lingerie so cunningly wrapped around by the seating hostess.
Oh yes, food is definitely an erogenous exercise steeped in years of culinary perfection and photo shoots that seek to rival the guilt associated with looking at Playboy.
I love food. The way it calls to me on long, morning strolls from my car to the BWP, begging me to turn around and drive to the nearest location to satisfy primal urges passed down from my forefathers. It's just early morning, my wife and I have just eaten, and already we start discussing what's for dinner. It's not that food is all I think about, but I'd feel much more comfortable spending $153 at Publix than $101 at the jewelry store.
I don't binge and purge, I don't look at a plateful of mouthwatering, juice infused steak and just reach for the bed of lettuce it lays on so mockingly calling to me as the dirty sheets of Anna Kournikova would (meow). But, I do eat more than I should and then feel guilty afterwards. I ate supper not three hours ago, but already feel the need to pour a huge bowl of cereal (I use a bowl that easily holds a cup and a half of cereal) even though it's 11:01 at night.
Why the guilt? It's not like I'm cheating on my beloved wife, I don't break any laws, there's never any time taken away from what I should be doing to advance myself in my chosen career. I think it has to do with exercise. Yea, let's go with that.
I'm never interested in sweating up a storm when instead I could be watching TV or playing video games. I never feel the desire to hurt myself beyond all reasonable realms of conceivable endurance. So what if my belly makes me look pregnant from the side?
I tell you why the guilt. It's not about me; it has nothing to do with how I see myself - I'm quite happy with myself - I'm in love with myself (yea, if I was a chick, I'd wanna date me). But, it does have to do with my family. My future children deserve all the time I can give them, and more importantly, my wife seeks to better herself - it's only fair that I aim for the same. That's where the guilt comes from . . . I should make myself as attractive as possible so she can hang on my arm, look at all the passing hotties, and declare Yea, this is my man.
I hope to do better. We're going back to Belize this Christmas, I hope, and I should look better for my triumphant return. I will do better. Belly look out! You days are numbered!
And every time I make this promise, it calls to me and begs me to not go through with it. The little voice of nagging shame that is associated with a lack of exercise and an overindulgence of food, but I will not listen. This time . . . it's personal.
Food. I'm 20-30 lbs overweight, I rarely exercise (although after BWP, when I have more time and energy, Billie will become my new best friend - ever tried Tae Bo?), and I always eat to excess. I can't help it. The sensuousness as drops of gravy caress me while rolling down my chins. The pheromones released by Whoppers that tickle my nose and reel me in like a prize-winning marlin. The exotic beauty that suffuses my sight as a Krispi Kream glazed is lovingly placed in the tray, calling my name with an erotic voice that promises me all the pleasure I can imagine. Oh for the silky texture of yeast rolls: their hot, buttery, melt in your mouth taste, the soft give you feel as you gently run your finger tips down their long, vivacious, and soft curves, the arousing scent of perfume labeled Blue Bonnet (available at fine grocery store dairy sections around the world), seeing their eroticism as they gently unwrap themselves from the protective napkin lingerie so cunningly wrapped around by the seating hostess.
Oh yes, food is definitely an erogenous exercise steeped in years of culinary perfection and photo shoots that seek to rival the guilt associated with looking at Playboy.
I love food. The way it calls to me on long, morning strolls from my car to the BWP, begging me to turn around and drive to the nearest location to satisfy primal urges passed down from my forefathers. It's just early morning, my wife and I have just eaten, and already we start discussing what's for dinner. It's not that food is all I think about, but I'd feel much more comfortable spending $153 at Publix than $101 at the jewelry store.
I don't binge and purge, I don't look at a plateful of mouthwatering, juice infused steak and just reach for the bed of lettuce it lays on so mockingly calling to me as the dirty sheets of Anna Kournikova would (meow). But, I do eat more than I should and then feel guilty afterwards. I ate supper not three hours ago, but already feel the need to pour a huge bowl of cereal (I use a bowl that easily holds a cup and a half of cereal) even though it's 11:01 at night.
Why the guilt? It's not like I'm cheating on my beloved wife, I don't break any laws, there's never any time taken away from what I should be doing to advance myself in my chosen career. I think it has to do with exercise. Yea, let's go with that.
I'm never interested in sweating up a storm when instead I could be watching TV or playing video games. I never feel the desire to hurt myself beyond all reasonable realms of conceivable endurance. So what if my belly makes me look pregnant from the side?
I tell you why the guilt. It's not about me; it has nothing to do with how I see myself - I'm quite happy with myself - I'm in love with myself (yea, if I was a chick, I'd wanna date me). But, it does have to do with my family. My future children deserve all the time I can give them, and more importantly, my wife seeks to better herself - it's only fair that I aim for the same. That's where the guilt comes from . . . I should make myself as attractive as possible so she can hang on my arm, look at all the passing hotties, and declare Yea, this is my man.
I hope to do better. We're going back to Belize this Christmas, I hope, and I should look better for my triumphant return. I will do better. Belly look out! You days are numbered!
And every time I make this promise, it calls to me and begs me to not go through with it. The little voice of nagging shame that is associated with a lack of exercise and an overindulgence of food, but I will not listen. This time . . . it's personal.
posted by Jeremy Tucker at
8:34 AM
1 Comments:
Cup and a half of cereal? I have extended family members (don't worry, Jeff, no names) who use serving bowls for cereal, particularly if it's Lucky Charms. Wes still feels deprived that he was never allowed to eat "that junk food" for breakfast while his younger brother was. As the youngest kid myself, I just say, "Well, it sucks to be you, sucker."
By
Donna Sewell, at 9:10 AM
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