As I get older I’m continually dumbfounded by the fun things my own body won’t let me do anymore.
It’s almost as if it doesn’t want me to die a horrible, wheezy, bloated death by the time I turn 50. Listen, body — why are you being so selfish?
A few weeks ago I went to a well-known eating establishment and ordered a “combination meal” that included a “hamburger” of some specific weight, a refillable soda pop and french fries.
It’s an order I’ve been making since I was a teenager, though with far less frequency these days. In fact, I hadn’t ordered my favourite combo — no onions please, I don’t want anything that even resembles a vegetable — for more than a year.
But in December I got a gift card for the restaurant at a Christmas party — it was, quite perfectly, a “tacky gift exchange” — and so I found myself going on a trip down memory lane by ordering my old favourite.
It turns out, however, these days that charming old memory lane of my youth looks more like a big old stretch of irritable bowel syndrome. Two bites into my combo meal I got the feeling that my night was not going to end well. That’s when I stopped, threw the burger in the trash and headed across the street to a vegan deli and ordered a lentil salad.
Just kidding. I scarfed the whole meal down and loved every bite, refilled my pop twice and then went on with my day. Tried to go on with my day, I suppose is more accurate, as my body had different ideas than my brain about housing this “food” I had just ingested.
As you no-doubt guessed, my body reacted like a fighter jet with its tail shot off.
Eject! Eject!
This turn of events made me sad. And sweaty. But mostly sad.
I’ve always prided myself on my ability to enjoy some tasty garbage without feeling guilt, dizziness or death. My junk food side-life started when I was a kid, with a mostly harmless can of cola given as a bribe for quietness during a weekly bible study held at my house (I’m not making that up — the Lord works in mysterious, delicious ways).
From there I graduated to frequent trips to the corner store to buy pop famously sold at a size known as Super Big. I remember once as a child chugging one of those 1.3-litre cola bathtubs in my basement while playing a couple of awesome Nintendo games.
One was called Rampage. The other, if I recall correctly, was called Run Upstairs Every 90 Seconds To Pee. Very realistic.
The local pizza place had an amazing thing called non-stop pop that I would take as a personal challenge — if I wasn’t finished Glass 1 by the time the waiter finished setting down the rest of the drinks on the table, I failed.
Then there were the giant soft ice cream parfaits topped with peanuts and hot fudge that I absolutely loved. As a youngster I was very jealous of adult humans who could go and eat one of those bad boys any time they wanted. I swore that when I was old enough to drive I’d eat somewhere between 11 and 400 per day.
When I got to college it was not a rare occurrence for my roommate and I to each eat an entire large pizza for dinner. In fact, it was Tuesday. Two-for-one Tuesday, if you really must know.
Now don’t get me wrong — I wasn’t ever a junk food junkie. And I don’t blame my parents either. It was a different era back then. Big Sugar was an awesome prairie rock band, not a sweet-hearted assassin.
It doesn’t matter now though, it seems — my body has taken matters into its own hands, which are located in my stomach, I guess. This metaphor is getting really confusing.
Anyway, I just can’t eat that wonderful crap anymore. Last year I ordered one of my favourite parfaits and by the time I was finished I felt like a hummingbird that had spent all day buzzing around the cocaine tree.
And speaking of slurping, one of my all-time favourites is the slush-type beverage, something that was a near daily part of my life during hot prairie summers.
This summer I bought exactly one of those. And it was the small. The really small. I think it was called the Super Big Thimble. And it still gave me a sugar headache and had me feeling rotten for the rest of the day.
If this is life as an adult, I’m not sure I want to carry on.
Sure I have a nice wife and kids and a Nissan and a decent barbecue, but what’s left as a treat just for me?! Where’s the guilty pleasure?
Argh, I need a beer. Hey. . . .
Andy Prest can be reached via email at [email protected].
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