I had to go do a training workshop yesterday. Part of me loves these days for the bludge factor extensive and enriching learning that takes place, and the other part for the food. Catered morsels of goodness. All displayed on pretty doilies in all their glory. I seriously think any kind of food that you haven’t had to prepare yourself, and comes in small bite sizes, just tastes so much better than anything from home, am I right?
I go into these days with a steely resolve. I’m totes just going to eat the fruit and the salad out of the sandwich (can’t eat the whole sandwich. Because. Carbolinia. It’s real, people. And on a possibly related note, yes I may have some issues). And then I get down to the food table, trying to remain composed, but possibly recreating a scene from Chariots of Fire with my mad dash to the front of the line. And I start with the fruit. I truly do. But those little, tasty, treats are practically screaming at me to eat them. I think of the wasteful nature leaving them to rot on the tray would be, I think of the environment, and saving landfill, and I remind myself that I went for a 6.5km jog that morning *just in case*. So it starts with one treat, then another, and another. And I make sure I only eat half of the treat, so it’s half the guilt. Unless it’s really good. Then fuck it, in it goes whole. Then that slippery slope is laden with grease and goo and I’m slip slidin’ down with record speed. I’ve gone into a treat coma and when I wake, I realise that I’ve stuffed half the tray in my mouth, and the next session of the workshop is spent with me chastising myself and wondering why the hell I have no self-control.