9:30 PM, and I was staring down the freshly-stocked snack shelf once again. All day, I did what I was supposed to: I counted calories, I hit my macros, I ate a diet so bland you’d think I had an upset stomach. But finally, my self-control reached its limit, and now, I thought only of the trove of golden carbs that taunted me.

Oreos. Nutella. Pretzels. Goldfish. The full gamut.

The snack shelf, my oyster. And I, salivating, on the precipice of an extremely pleased palate.

I just need to get it right. 

After all, I’d stayed well below my daily allotment for this very moment. But even then, I only had a finite number of calories to spare.

Thirty seconds of intense risk analysis. Then, I decided upon the double-stuffed Oreos. The familiar rip of tearing into fresh packaging felt more satisfying than normal – and one, two, three – the Oreos went quickly.

Seventeen seconds of total, guilt-free, man-on-cookie carnage.

Those cream-filled chocolate wafers didn’t stand a freakin’ chance.

seventeen grams of granola

I dutifully spooned exactly seventeen grams of granola into my morning bowl of yogurt, as if the late-night cookie bender never even happened.

Because it didn’t. Who’s asking?

And before sitting down, I pulled out my faithful calorie counter to input the macros.

198 calories, 22 grams of protein, 19 grams of carbs, 5 grams of fat.

A strong start, for sure, but I’d need to figure out how to get in more protein later on in the day. Ideally, I’d have some high-protein noodles for lunch. But more realistically – and responsibly – I’d opt for a shake. That was Later Me’s problem, though.

Ssst-knock-knock-knock.

Sigh. Surely, Slack wasn’t calling already? It wasn’t even 9 AM.

I quickly rinsed my dish and threw it in the dishwasher. And when I opened the pantry doors to return the bag of granola, I pretended the Oreos weren’t there.

the scale

I received a Slack from one of my company’s Human Resources Specialists the other day (talk about give me a heart attack), but all was well. She was just letting me know I had some “use it or lose it money” in my FSA.

So when we went to the mall a few days after she and I exchanged messages, I really splurged and bought myself a way-to-expensive body composition scale, thinking it would qualify for reimbursement. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.)

But by the time I received the rejection email from my FSA provider, I was already suffering from a gnarly case of Stockholm Syndrome. So rather than trek all the way back to the mall, forfeit my new toy, and admit to the Apple Store employees that I was wrong about the scale being reimbursable… I felt compelled to just eat the money.

With over thirty biometric measurements, I thought this scale would tell me everything I ever needed to know. But after receiving my daily vascular age and EDA readings, I realized most health metrics mean absolutely nothing to me.

I just want to look good naked.