I’ve been misled by the Mexican food restaurant with the bottomless bowls of chips and salsa and the to-die-for enchiladas. I’ve been snookered by bags of Snickers and seduced by salty chips, two-timed by an egg and bacon taco (or two), and hoodwinked by a side of hotcakes.
It’s their fault my belts won’t buckle and my jackets won’t zip. I blame them for my shortness of breath and my aching back as I carry armloads of Blue Bell ice cream and glazed donuts to the car.
I know I am not alone, so I say we sue those who have made us this way: they force me to eat that taco (or two) for breakfast; they lure me with their double lattes topped with whipped cream; they snare me with their Number One specials (then try to mask the truth with side salads and diet sodas); they sing their siren songs after a long, hard day with their “Hot and Ready” pizzas and drive through dinners that come complete with desserts.
They charm me with coupons.
After all is consumed (after all it is my Christian duty to clean my plate; some poor child in a third world country is counting on me), I reason with myself. I assuage my gluttony with promises to do better tomorrow.
The next day as I struggle with my stretch pants or drag my dress over my derrière, I . . .
blame the dryer.