A little while back, we celebrated someone's birthday at the House of Prime Rib. I'd actually never been there before, but I was interested in trying it. My friends all warned me that they served fairly hearty portions, but I wasn't too worried. I tend to eat a lot, so I can usually clear my plate. Little did I know, this was the first step on a long, sad journey.
When I got my plate, I realized that my friends weren't kidding. It was a good amount of food, although it was definitely within my means to comfortably finish it off. As is my habit, I went to work and put most of it away fairly quickly. As I was down to about a fourth of the food, though, I noticed that the food didn't taste as good any more. I don't quite know how to explain it, but I think the combination of the seasoning on the meat and the gravy was starting to get to me. I don't usually like my food seasoned too strongly, so I think my brain was starting to catch up to my stomach.
I still managed to finish my plate, but my digestive system was not too happy with me. Even worse, there is an unspoken rule that you can ask for a second slice of meat at that particular restaurant. It's a much smaller cut, but you still get a second serving. Not wanting to leave food on the table, so to speak, I asked for the second slice.
Since it was much smaller and I had had a few minutes to digest, I was able to finish it off. It was slower going the second time around, but I finished it nonetheless. However, to give you an idea of how I was feeling, the following exchange went down:
Friend: "Sam, help me finish this"
Me: "Nah, I'm full"
Friend: "Oy ... think of all the poor, starving children in Africa" (side note: why does everyone say this to me?)
Me: "I am. And I'm doing my part by being full."
I don't think I've ever said to someone before. I get full just like everybody else, but I can usually help out a little bit with other people's leftovers.
Regardless, between being full and the seasoning on the food, I was teetering on the edge of being really uncomfortable. And apparently, my body decided that it liked this feeling, because it would not go away for a day or so. In fact, I woke up the next morning not really wanting to eat breakfast. That'd be another first for me, if you don't count being hung over.
Fast forward a couple of days, and I was eating sushi. Apparently, some of it was bad, because it gave me an upset stomach. It's not even like I ate too much or otherwise did something stupid; I just ate some fish that I shouldn't have. Still, it was bad enough that I missed my friend's barbecue. By this point, I'd pretty much gone an entire weekend with eating-related issues, and I was pretty annoyed.
Looking back, I think that was the point when I made up my mind: it's time to eat a little bit less. I know that overeating wasn't the sole cause of my weekend of discomfort, but three solid days of discomfort has a way of inspiring you to change any of the habits that led to said discomfort. In fact, now that I think about it, it took me eating way too much McDonald's in high school before I decided that fast food was a bad idea (a story for another day). So, I think it's time to dial down the eating from an 11 to about a 9. Or maybe even ... an 8?
I have to admit, I feel a little sad. It's like a (very, very) little piece of greatness is gone now. I'm sure there will be flashes of the old appetite again, but like a fighter past his prime, I'll never match my peak again. I suddenly understand all of those people who say they can't eat like they once did.
So long, crazy appetite. We had some good times.
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