Carbs are my best friend and worst enemy. I love them with all my heart and they are going to give me a heart attack.
I recently went to New Orleans with my lovely wife. She’s not perfect, but she does not struggle with her weight. I have lost more weight than she has ever been.
To say that she’s a bad influence is a bit harsh. Instead, I will call her a demon temptress. (I know that she will read this, and that she will not like that line. That is the sole reason I chose to keep that line.)
She constantly wants us to get Blizzards or Cold Stone. I can turn that down. McDonald’s breakfast on a road trip is another story. Road trips are all about unhealthy eating choices. I tell the truth, but I do it with love.
Another factor was our destination. We went to New Orleans. I avoided carbs my first day in the Big Easy. That was enough.
The next day, I went hog wild. I ate like a pig.
I had so much bread, I became part carbohydrate. The GPS said New Orleans. My soul said Heaven.
Carbs affect more than just my joy. They affect my tummy. I don’t want to be crass, but carbs give me the farts.
I’m blowing up my sweatpants like I was part roman candle.
The next morning, we began our trip back home. Eleven hours in the car.
The air in that Impala was so foul that my wife’s nail polish dissolved. It was a rolling hot-box. She lured me over to the world of processed foods. The punishment fits the crime.