I have a confession to make…

I have, for years, had an on and off again affair. I just…I can’t help it.

Yep. I’m cheating on my husband.

With food. More specifically, fast food.

OH MY GOSH. This is awful. I shouldn’t even be confessing this. Because once I do, it is out. I’m having an affair…with food.

Maybe he won’t read this. I don’t think he reads my stuff anymore. He’s busy. Got shit to do and all.

Here’s the thing. I LOVE fast food. And I KNOW it’s horrible for me. I know this. I know it’s awful, and terrible, and full of fat, and sodium, and sugar, and not even real meat.

But I love it.

This is how it works; there are a couple of ways in which my affair plays out:

I say I’m going to run an errand, or go to the store, or pretty much anything. And I do this. I’m not LYING. I’m just, you know, going to take a little side trip.

I swing by Arbys. Yes. I know. I mean, is that even REAL meat??? I don’t know. I don’t CARE. I just know that occasionally, I must have me two regular roast beefs. So I swing into the drive through, and I look around covertly. I order…as if I’m on some sort of secret mission. Or something. Whatever.

It’s not like I drive and eat. No. That takes away from the joy. And it’s dangerous because I’m pretty sure my eyes roll back in my head from enjoyment. I pull into a parking lot. And I sit there and I eat. And eat. And eat. The whole time, I’m thinking, “If he knew, he would be so disappointed, but I can’t stop.”

The second way is far more common. When I have a day off of work, I indulge. I treat myself to Zips, or Panda Express, both of which DO have real meat. Yes. They. Do. I swing up to restaurant in which I am jonesing, I order, then I come home. I lay out my spread. And I begin to feast. And I feast, and I feast, and I feast.

As I’m feasting though, I am forever aware…aware that he may come home for his own lunch, as he has been known to do, and catch me in the midst of my affair. I’ll take a bite…enjooooyyyyy…then suddenly *CAR DOOR* - I jerk around, frantically scanning the front of our house. Is he home? Am I busted? Nope. Just the neighbor. I sigh. And go back to my feasting.

What do I do with the wrappings? That is an excellent question. I hide them. YES I DO. I hide them. Deep in the garbage. Or in my garbage bag in the car. I hide the evidence. And I don’t say one word.

Now, naïve people who eat whatever they want whenever they want may be wondering: Why hide it? Why the need? Here’s the thing, my wonderful husband abhors fast food. He knows of the risks that go with eating that junk. He wants me to be healthy and fit. He wants me to feel good and to take care of my heart. I know this. And because of this, we don’t eat out at fast food restaurants.

Also, it makes me feel dangerous. And sneaky. And like I’m risking it ALL. My life is pretty vanilla. So. I pretend. Okay?  I just…shut up. I like to feel dangerous.

I’m a junkie. I sneak food. I am having a love affair with food.

I do have standards though. I mean, it’s not like I’m eating at McDonalds. COME ON, people. Even I won’t stoop that low.

Except for their McChicken sandwiches. Because those things are the bomb. I’ll eat the hell outta those. No lie…

Just…don’t tell HIM. It’ll be our little secret. Not like anyone reads my stuff anyway, right?