As you may recall from earlier this week, I joined a gym again in a fit of madness. In my pursuit to be healthy and trim, I paired that gym membership with attempts at eating better – watching my portions, drinking more water, etc. You see, I’m registered with friends for the Color Me Rad 5k in Chicago this July. If you’ve never heard of Color Me Rad, it’s basically 3.1 miles of being pelted with colored cornstarch at regular intervals.
You read that correctly: I’m going to be a big sweaty mess of a runner, dressed head to toe in what basically amounts to rainbow bukkake, and this strikes me as being a fun idea. I have no idea what that says about me. But even though it’s just over 3 miles, the last thing I want is to be a wheezing bukkake coronary, so training is in order, hence the gym and the modified diet.
Now usually, my husband packs my lunch with leftovers from the previous night and or various and sundry food items that, when combined, make no sense whatsoever. For my part, I still haven’t come to the conclusion that entrusting him with this task is a mistake, but it’s pretty much a laugh riot of failure. The man may well be the king of the Mech Warriors, Pwning n00bs and slaying dragons and shit, but if my lunch bag is to be believed, he just cannot figure out how to pack a damn lunch. He’s been banned from making me sandwiches because they’re always so abominable as to be hilarious.
Some notable lunches from months past:
- A meatloaf sandwich. That is to say, there was a hunk of meatloaf between two slices of bread. No mayonnaise, no cheese, not even a garnish.
- Crackers, chips, and pretzel sticks. No vegetables.
- A 4 ounce tupperware container with 2 gummy vitamins.
- A chunk of steak, a container of salad with the croutons in it, already soggy. Random pink goo that I think might have been dressing? 3 whole triscuits
- Four pounds of angel hair pasta with 1/4 cup sauce and 4 shrimp
- A glass food storage container full of the cat’s wet food. Thankfully this was in his lunch bag, not mine.
Last night, we had soft tacos for dinner. The man excels at his taco making skills, and yet when it was time to make it into lunch? Fail.
Lunch tacos were a travesty. There was neither sour cream nor salsa. There was a whole leaf of iceburg lettuce in a baggie. Not shredded, not torn – the whole leaf. If I hadn’t thrown some carrots and grapes into my bag, I’d have no fruits or veggies either. He also packed me 2 slices of bread and a tupperware container of peanut butter.
Let me break this down: He made me tacos (sort of) and a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly. No, wait, that’s wrong – He didn’t even make me the sandwich. He gave me the bread and the peanut butter in separate containers. In that action he was basically telling me, “Fuck you. Make your own sammich.”
I suppose I should stop making fun of the person who makes my lunch…