Knowing Too Much for My Own Bad

I tell you, I am presently too well informed and wish to goodness I were not.  Here is my dilemma.

A few years ago I started reading food labels.  Back then that didn't create too much confusion on my part, however, since most of the information was indecipherable - diomethyklene, this and caroetalide, that - who knew?  So I could munch merrily on my way, none the wiser.  Life was more fun back then.

Then some wise-acre at the FDA decided the eating public should actually know what they were eating.  These busybodies just couldn't leave bad enough alone and thought the rest of us should know what we were putting into our bodies.  Oh, phooey.

Next the restaurants got into the act and started putting the caloric content of each and every entree right on the menus, in plain sight.  Oh, please, how how are you supposed to enjoy ordering a great big cheesy, gooey whatever, when you know it is going to involve consuming about ten thousand calories and enough fat to put your triglycerides into the stratosphere?

(Please hand me two Lipitors with a Mevacor chaser.)

I went into Applebee's the other day, ready to sup and sip to my little heart's content; but after perusing that darned overly informative menu, I had to scroll down to my fifth choice before I could get something under a thousand calories.  It was mostly vegetables that had been grilled in vegetable oil - no polyunsaturated fats for this girl - and then whispered upon by a bare flavoring of beef.  Oh, shucks!

Oh, and what about your good old American staple, one of your basic food groups, soda pop?  Everyone ought to have a couple of those a day, and I often did, until about five years ago.  Then some Nazi-nutritionist published something about how you could drop a penny into a glass of cola and it would dissolve the thing - and then the same guru encouraged you to contemplate what it was doing to your stomach lining.  Shoot! 

And that said nothing of the sugar calories in the intake of regular soda.  So I switched to diet cola and began to limit myself to one a day.  I was told to avoid "drinking your calories".  Doggone it anyway. 

Shortly, thereafter I stumbled into a Weight Watchers meeting (run by a true convert with all the enthusiasm of a midget cheerleader - and the discipline of a Stalag 13 commandant) and learned about portion control.  I pretty much felt like my whole eating life had been usurped completely beyond my control at that point.

So here I am, earlier this afternoon, contemplating having a snack.  There was a small bag beckoning me from the cupboard, labeled Cheetos, if you must know.  But before I could even open it, my inner food-conscience ( I call her Shalli - shall I have this or shall I have that ?) nudges me to have an apple instead.  So I did, and it wasn't half-bad.  But it wasn't a Cheeto either.

So after the apple I allowed myself 10 Cheetos (portion control) which only contained 80 calories and a half a percent of cholesterol.  I chewed slowly and tried to savor them, washing them down with non-sweetened iced tea.

I tell you, these days I just know too much to enjoy being bad.  I don't what what is going to happen to me, but it cannot bode well when I tell you that two days ago I did the previously unthinkable.  I had a sandwich without the mayo.  What is the world coming to?

I don't want to find out.  Do you?

Here's hoping your cholesterol is under control and your portions are too.  But if they are, I hope you are having more fun with it than I am.  Until next time ...Marsha