When I was a teenager, or in college for that matter, I could sit in that basement lair and down slice after slice of scrumptious cheese dunes. I recall once going with a bunch of buddies, ordering the giant pie and dropping pound after pound of palatable, saucy glory down my gullet. I must have eaten 8 slices that night, and the amazing thing is - I probably went and played 2 hours of basketball immediately afterward.
This eve's sapid venture was not as well received by my abdomen as when I was a young lad. By the forth slice, I had become a hunched mound of man-sweat on a bench. Moving had become an inconvenience. That forth slice... that forth slice is always a claptrap. It's like it looks up at me and that divine cheese molds into a delectable mouth. "I know I look good Abe. I put on this little number just for you, you sexy man. Heck, I even threw on the mushroom necklace as a seductive tease. Forget what your innards are trying to tell you. I... your forth slice, am your cruelest mistress. I look good now, but you know you're going to regret me in a couple hours."
After waddling to the car, crawling into the house and crashing on the couch, I suddenly felt a cringe of guilt. I felt other cringes, but I am pretty sure one of them was a guilt cringe. I mustered up enough energy to pull on some sweats. I jogged 4 miles in the rain. The entire time, it felt as though I was carrying a five pound pouch of broken marbles in the front of my hoodie. Whenever I have a meal like this and run, my acid reflux really acts up and I am re-tasting my meal the entire time. Each time I burped up Pie acid, I thought, "That's right... I am a health machine. No wonder we have that Shape magazine subscription."
I ran four miles. Probably just enough to burn off that ranch dressing I dipped my breadsticks in.