Next time I'm feeling all smart and good about myself, will someone please remind me of my poor decision-making this week? In particular, give me a refresher course on what dumb thing I did yesterday morning.
Before the reveal, let me preface by saying I have long taken pride in the ability of my stomach to endure what would send lesser souls to the hospital with terrible bouts of food poisoning. I refuse to refrigerate pizza on principle. I routinely eat buffalo wings that have been sitting on the counter for a little too long. I once, during a hangover my freshman year in college, found a bowl of chili under my bed and, unsure of how long it had been there, skimmed off the top and reheated the rest. How I avoided contracting botulism then, or any other time I've tempted fate, is beyond me.
I'm not writing this to show off or to revel in my grossness. I fully recognize the grossness and am deeply ashamed of myself. Really.
And regardless, all this is over now, thanks to yesterday.
For yesterday I attempted to eat what will forever be known as "The Spoiled Burrito."
Now I didn't know it was spoiled. I mean, in retrospect, OF COURSE it was spoiled, but I figured it'd be ok. I mean, after all it was in the refrigerator for the previous 24 hours.
This, however, does not take into consideration the previous THREE DAYS it had spent in my car, lying patiently in its little tin foil cocoon, undergoing chemical changes that would soon get the best of me.
So, yesterday morning, I wake up, felt hungry, and am waiting for my visiting pal to finish some painting he is doing in the attic. (Note: He is an artist and needed to retouch some corners on a canvas. I don't rent out my guest room in exchange for household maintenance. Though that doesn't seem like a bad idea ...) I decide to eat something and, upon gazing into the refrigerator, I see only a range of condiments and the burrito.
I figure it can't be that bad and, after all, I do have the stomach of steel, so what the heck. I cook it in the oven for a bit, cut it in half, inspect the innards to see if anything looks off, conclude that all appears to be fine, and commence my meal. I get about 2/3 of the way through the first half and start thinking, "uh oh." Naturally, I finish the rest of the half, then chuck the other half in the trash, and go to jump in the shower.
I'm standing in the bathroom, waiting for the water to get the right temperature and ...
you guessed it.
About an hour later I leave the bathroom, pale, sweaty, nauseous.
I was so pissed at myself, mostly because I had grand plans to go to Melt and eat the El Diablo burger, which usually tears me up pretty good. No way was I going to pull that off in this condition.
I explain my problem to my friend, who is not pleased, telling me that he told me not to eat that burrito when he saw it was still in my car two days before, but I never listen to him. He's right, I usually don't, as he often is quite foolish, but this time, I give in. He was correct in giving that advice. I was incorrect in not following it.
Nevertheless, despite the initial tumble, my stomach rebounded and within two hours, I was back to normal. A little tired from all the excitement (yes, reheating old burritos and hurling are what passes for excitement in my life anymore), but no worse for the wear. I still managed to take down the El Diablo, and, best of all, when I stepped on the scale this morning, I weighed a pound less than I did the day before. And that's WITH a trip to Melt in between!
I have not forgotten the misery of that hour in the bathroom or of the queasiness for the couple hours after ... yet. But I'm afraid I will, which is why I post this request to remind me of my stupidity when an encore performance seems imminent. You know, when I start telling you about this great new idea I have for a diet...
I suppose after all this nastiness, I ought to put in the usual disclaimer:
Please don't judge me, at least not any more harshly than is due.