I have an eating problem. There, I said it, and admitting you have a problem is the first and only step, yes? I am a fine eater when I cook myself, when I plan ahead, when I venture to restaurants and order with my own free will. Within my design, I consume enough broccoli and spinach to construct a solid green bridge across Minneapolis, enough quinoa to fill your bathtub each morning, and enough beets to have a decent career as a professional boxer.

bakedThe problem arises with the seductive concept of free food — perhaps at a Super Bowl party, an employee staff meeting, a hotel continental breakfast. Those unguarded coffee cakes, muffins, potato chips, croissants, cookies, cereal, pasta — a thousand shades of empty brown carbs, sawdust disguised as food. I stuff my face and belly galaxies beyond their capacities on my way to feeling heavy, bloated, and exhausted. Inside my binges, I don’t actually taste or enjoy the food so much as shovel it repetitiously inside me. And my only stopping points are when the food is gone or when someone provides me that sexy look of disgust.

If you are what you eat, I’m over-refined, baked and superficial. Link