Friday, January 28, 2011
Fish and Chips
This morning, we got the best seat at the Hungry Toad, a pub in Old North Boulder. Outside, buses and fire engines and cyclists and lycra-clad dog walkers paraded by our front corner window perch. Will, Ruth and I were hungry--they had just had a swimming lesson; remember how hungry you felt after swimming when you were a kid?--and since their dad was scheduled to go out with friends later and I didn't feel like cooking lunch AND dinner, I caved on eating out mid-day.
Normally I scope out the kids' offerings at restaurants before we're super-hungry, or ever before we try a restaurant. I know who substitutes fruit for fries. My kids have never tasted soda. Makes me feel less guilty about letting them get mac and cheese at almost every restaurant we visit. Today, though, I was caught off guard. Of course I should've known: the kids' menu at "the Toad" was a Fiesta of Fried and Melted. And I let them both order fish and chips.
Now, I've been pretty good about my own eating this week. At work I've successfully declined all of the following: 1) double chocolate-chip cupcakes 2) chocolate cake and 3) chocolate-dipped almonds. At home I've eaten chunks of frozen mango when I start to crave sweets. I haven't eaten as many vegetables as I should, but my rice has all been brown, my dairy has all been low-fat and my protein intake has been high. I even threw away the leftover ice-cream cake from my birthday.
My good behavior continued at the Toad, at least at first. After ordering Ruth and Will their greasy selection, I ordered a Greek salad and unsweetened tea for myself. I ate and enjoyed the whole thing. But, again, I should have seen it coming: I wasn't really satisfied, and Ruth didn't want all of her fish, and there it sat, a nice fat lemon on one side of it, a bowl of ketchup on the other. So I took one bite. Then another. And--you guessed it!--soon that hunk of fried fish was gone. I stole some fries from them too.
Now, as I type about three hours later, I still feel that fried stuff sitting in my gut. It worries me, not so much because I fear it will trigger any cravings (sweets, not fried stuff, are my problem), but because I have a 13-miler in the morning. There aren't any port-o-johns out by the Reservoir. There aren't many trees either. And there's plenty of traffic.
In an ideal world, the Friday rest day that precedes my Saturday long runs would be a day of careful eating--nutritious, maybe lower fiber, lots of fluids. I'm trying to make up for it now--I'm sipping green tea, drinking lots of water, and will think about eating again only when I'm actually hungry. But I still fear that lunch will mean practicing certain camping skills in some ditch in rural Boulder County tomorrow. I will certainly carry some TP with me.
It wasn't good for Will and Ruth either. Bad runner. Bad mommy.