A Homerun of a Binge
We sat in the fat white light of Cici’s. Dad rolled up his sleeves and declared each plate an inning. By the time he got to the seventh inning stretch, he looked over at me, alarmed that I was matching him slice for slice. This was not a dream; this was lunch.
But you can’t eat like that, he said.
Oh, but I can, I said, dangling a pepperoni in the air. I’ve been trying to get him to go on the diet that’s not a diet for years now. My last resort: all-you-can-eat pizza for $4.99 and a little reverse psychology. You see, pappy, I said, this is what I want every day. I just choose not to have it.
Hmm, he said, grimacing as I sopped up Ranch dressing with my cheese bread. I never thought of it that way.
The game stretched on. Even Dave was looking full. In a final gesture of sportsmanship, I licked the cinnamon bun frosting from my fingers; Dad’s starting tomorrow! As we walked to the car, Joe patted me on the back. Taking one for the team, he seemed to say. Yes, indeed, taking one for the team…
Stay tuned tomorrow for: Other Crap-tacular Rationalizations I Make Upon Consuming my Body Weight in Cheese.