I came to a realization last night.
My wife is conspiring to force me to eat healthy.
The conspiracy surrounds a styrofoam container of leftover chicken wings sitting on the bottom of the fridge. I can see the chicken wings. I know exactly where they are. At around 3 pm everyday at work I can taste their zesty flavor and spongy texture.
Later, while sitting on the train, an hour away from home, my stomach gurgling like our clogged kitchen sink, the thought of the chicken wings weighs on my mind. I try to read the paper, but it’s a mere charade. My brain is squarely focused on my hunger pangs.
Then when I finally arrive home, there is Lisa in the kitchen hastily putting the finishing touches on our homemade dinner.
Last night we had rice and spinach soup. The night before that she had a lettuce and cucumber salad and a bowl of veggie chili waiting on the table.
Devious because prior to this week, Lisa never had dinner prepared on time. Usually on the nights that she cooks, I wait for an hour or two before service.
And what happens on those nights is that as soon as I walk in the door and see that supper is not ready, I head straight for the fridge for snacks.
Snacks like chicken wings.
Now Lisa knows just as well as I do that there is a styrofoam container full of chicken wings sitting at the bottom of the fridge. And she knows that if a healthy dinner isn’t waiting for me the second I step through the door, that my chubby face will be smeared with orangish-red buffalo sauce before the first commercial break of Chopped.
Thanks to the conniving efforts of my wife, those chicken wings are still in the fridge.
I wonder what’s for dinner tonight?