Why you gotta be so good? And yet still be so bad?
In this case, I wish that ignorance could shield me from the ere of a big, plump, greasy hot dog, smothered in ketchup and nestled snugly in some sort of bleached, white-bread bun.
Once, every decade or so, I get a larger-than-me, out-of-control craving for a hot dog. When i was pregnant with Lila I spent my sixth month eating only hot dogs. I could easily eat five of them (Sam's Club size... NOT Oscar Meyer) in one sitting. I gained 12 pounds that month and walked away from my ob/gyn with an earful about nitrates. As it turns out, I might have just as well spent my sixth month of pregnancy with a heroine syringe in my arm while doing keg stands.
So, I quit hot dogs.
But in recent days something has come over me. I feel a need growing inside of me. On Saturday morning I bought the hot dogs. And tonight I made my family a baked lemon chicken with potatoes and steamed broccoli.
But I ate hot dogs.
And I loved every bite.
I hate myself for it. But I just can't help it.