Lunchtime at the office.
A dude from another department that I don’t particularly like
I’m sitting with a book in one hand (Gone Tomorrow by Lee Child) and a fork in the other, eating a leftover lamb shanks (good, not great, so I’m not sharing the recipe yet) on a bed of kale and spaghetti squash.
Across the room, the Dude is assembling a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the generic PB, generic grape jelly, and whole wheat bread our company keeps in the kitchen so there’s “food” in case people need to work late or are too busy to get out for lunch.
[From across the room, in a loud voice...]
Dude: Mel, don’t you follow the kilo diet, or something like that?
Me: It’s called paleo.
Dude: Right, paleo. Are you allowed to eat pasta on that diet?
Me: It’s spaghetti squash.
Dude: Oh! It really looks like pasta, and I know you said you can’t eat that on your diet.
Me, inside my head: It’s not a diet. The only reason I told you anything is because you’re always staring at my food and don’t have the good graces to notice I don’t particularly want to talk to you about it. Who made you the food police? Perhaps you should put down the poison butter and poison jelly on poison bread sandwich. And oh, yeah… mind your own fucking business.
Me, outside: No response, eyes riveted on my book as if my life depended on it. In fact, Dude’s life depended on it because I came thisclose to answering the question that’s plagued me since I started CrossFit: I wonder how hard I can punch if I really put my core into it?
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