That Dish of Guilt

Late, I set out. We had a lot of rain last night and this morning, and so now the earth is cool. The sun is out and bright. Colors seem freshly painted.

I hear a chime and against my better judgement I look at the notification on my phone: "You still have time to save your 7 day logging streak on MyFitnessPal." My diet has become a game that is already so boring it needs statistics to prop up interest. But I'm not buying it. Besides, there is no way to enter "Two plates of mostly-chicken-at-the-Royal-Buffet-but-no-fried-rice-though-it-smelled-so-good-and-I-realize-how-hypocritical-it-is-of-me-to-mention-the-rice-since-some-of-the-chicken-had-some-sort-of-breading-and-was-probably-cooked-in-something-that-is-guaranteed-to-shape-me-like-Buddha-no-matter-how-many-damn-vegetables-I-eat-so-stop-judging-me-you-stupid-app. Oh, and two-glasses-of-iced-tea-no-sugar-I-promise-and-I'm-sorry-I-called-you-stupid."

i'd rather not know

the number of carbs

in that dish of guilt

I begin to wonder if my pace is too slow to count as real exercise when I reach the field. The grass is still wet, and for some strange reason, my brain convinces me that I am at greater risk for running into a snake. My bare legs feel colder, as I scurry like a scared dog, not running, half dragging my walking stick. For the rest of the walk, I stick to concrete.

I have miles to go, and not just before I sleep.