The road to weight loss--or let's just call it healthy eating, since I don't believe in dieting and I submit that stress and exercise drop pounds--is paved with rotten, fridge-chilled produce and boyfriends. I’ve had boyfriends whose diet consisted of, collectively: hot wings, dill pickle-flavored Lays, fried white meat dinner from Golden Chicken in Milwaukee, Leona's Cobb Chicken Sandwich, Tombstone supreme pizza, more hot wings, Hungry Man chicken pot pies, Blueberry Machine smoothies, beef nachos from Flash (In Your Pants) Taco on Damen, Coca-Cola, General Tso's Chicken, Orville Redenbacher butter popcorn (stovetop-cooked, thank you), and more fried chicken from the Shell gas station on the corner of Grand and Ashland.
Let me ask you, how can you eat room-temp iceberg lettuce and croutons while they are on the other end of the couch or table chowing on stuffed-all-over Pizza Hut? And breadsticks? You either fight ‘em or join ‘em. Oh--and be prepared to eat it all between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am.
On the other hand, there are those couples that discover the joy of cooking in their cozy, couple-y world. Armed with stainless steel pasta makers and George Foremans and the Rick Bayless cookbooks, they sequester in the kitchen. Then you run into them six months to a year after their first date and they’ve, collectively, put on at least 40 pounds: “Hey, wow, you guys. You all look…happy!”
I like to call it neck spread. It’s the first place couples pack on the pounds. Right under the ears.
[This post was meant in no way to offend and names have been omitted to protect the innocent. And guilty.]