My wife always says to me, “I have way too much faith in you. I would never think of you cheating on me while traveling.” Now that’s why I love my wife… But in the same breath she calls me a dirty dog - a walking euphemism for dietary monogamy on the road, especially when that road leads to East Tennessee. I spent seven days last week in The Motherland and like all scoundrels justifying infidelity, “Baby, it ain’t if there’s a gastric ring on, but how easy it comes off.”
It wasn’t one act of indiscretion that concerned me, but rather 38 with a little burger named Krystal, twice with Big Ed’s Pizza, some daily wake and Easy Bakes, and a risky picnic romp with some gut busting banana pudding. If there was a Dr Drew for unfaithful dieters, I would be on speed dial. How was I going to explain the musk of flame broil or the rapid expansion of my manzier?!? Manning up to the whole thing might’ve been the best course for some, hence my shallow ways forced me to avoid eye contact with the scales in hope complete denial and time would heal the wounds propagated by one man’s cheating stomach.
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