I have never been fond of cheating. You don't just hurt yourselves, people. You hurt everyone. But, as I have aged, I have learned that it is best not to judge until you walk a mile in someone else's leather boots (or something like that).
I never thought I would cheat, I really didn't. It's not that I don't appreciate what I have. I'm very lucky. I have awesome kids (their craziness is only an indication they weren't switched at birth with normal children), my husband is endlessly patient and understanding, my work is fulfilling.
Sometimes, though, that is just not enough. You begin to muse about the good old days, when you could go off on a binge and enjoy all those visceral pleasures that were part of your younger years.
Like:
Brie.
Gouda.
Sourdough.
Mozzarella.
and, :::gasp:::
Pizza!!!!!
You see, I have found...
(cue royal horns, doot-----da da doot----da dooooooooooooot!!!)
With a few of these babies popped into my mouth, I can ONCE IN A WHILE (twice a week???) enjoy a meal out with friends without putting the server through the Spanish Inquisition.
I feel my shoulders loosening already----it has grown quite tiresome, asking minute details about every ingredient of the poor servers at Applebee's. I waited tables in casual dining, so I know what happens when customers become a pain in the ass.
And, I am pretty sure their spit isn't gluten-free.
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