Sitting at my desk just minutes ago, having not consumed anything to eat since last nights’ dinner, the only thing that I could think about was the vision of a beautiful, fluffy, egg-white omelet placed lovingly on a plate in front of me. The omelet was prepared with sauteed mushrooms and onions, and my very own personal chef seductively folded a hearty piece of provolone cheese in the crevice of the omelet, just prior to presenting me with his creation. And the chef was tall. And he was cooking this omelet for me whilst wearing a schmedium white t-shirt that made it apparent that he had worked out just prior to coming to my office specifically to cook this omelet for me. And he had huge biceps. And he wanted me to bear like 12,567 of his babies.
I have a seriously vivid imagination.
Alas, there was no omelet for me this morning. Had I been better prepared, I could have easily whipped this up for myself (sigh…no sexy chef) this morning, prior to work. Had I been better prepared, I could have even made myself a beautiful omelet last night, brought it to work and heated it up in the micro this morning. Had I been better prepared, I wouldn’t have had to throw my gym clothes in the washer last night at midnight when I shot out of bed like a bullet upon remembering that I had no clean gym clothes. But I’m not prepared. I had no time to cook omelets, barely had time to put my damp gym clothes in my gym bag, and the dogs are lucky that they got 2 trips outside prior to me running out the door. I stayed in bed until nearly 7AM this morning. I was lazy. I do that often. That, my friends, is the problem. I need to get out of bed earlier.
That is another problem for another day.
The problem this morning was that I could not function anymore because visions of this lovely omelet had invaded my thoughts and taken over. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So, 1/4 mile walk to Royal Farms and $11.61 later, I came up with this:
I can assure you that these were the only healthy consumable items that existed at the Royal Farms by my job. I was actually surprised to have found these little beauties. My solution to the egg white omelet dilemma was hard-boiled eggs (of which I raped of their yolks), honey wheat bread (for toast), Parkay (because that was the only butter-like thing that they had in an easily-spreadable form), and a banana.
Sidebar: The banana is not ripe enough for my eating pleasure, but I will eat it anyway because I think it will help my calf tightness.
And so…the moral of the story is this: Get out of bed earlier, lazy ass. And request a personal chef at work. Preferably a sexy one. With rippling biceps. And his uniform shall be a tight white t-shirt.
