Earlier today, I lived through the ultimate first world problem: a three-hour long showdown with the oatmeal-berry muffin I’d brought as an afternoon snack. I finally caved at about 3 pm and unwrapped the muffin, broke it in half and ate it at my desk. Before I had finished my last bite, I was filled with guilt – not muffin – and I’m angry with myself for that.
I’ve worked out almost religiously for the last seven weeks, counting calories daily and reaching for my water bottle over the snack drawer more often than not.
My clothing fits looser. My body feels better. I’m told the changes are visibly obvious, and yet I beat myself up today because I ate a muffin. A relatively healthy muffin, filled with raspberries and whole wheat flour and oats, baked in my own kitchen.
A fucking muffin.
I felt badly about eating that muffin all day long. And I resolved after I got home from work that I wasn’t going to eat dinner. Then I wished that I had the soup I’d left in the fridge at work, because it was soup. And then I laid down with a headache that’s plagued me for almost two weeks.
And then I realized that many of my friends are mourning the loss of a great friend today. Two children are mourning the loss of their mother, a woman who surely thought she had tomorrow and the next day.And I’m worrying about a muffin.
And the totally, absolutely fucking inconsequential, unimportant possibility that I might have a muffin top because I ate a muffin today while I was hungry.
So I hugged my kid and we made nachos and now? We’re eating our homemade popsicles.