Being around this little blog world for the last couple of years, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to ponder other peoples’ eating habits.
And I’ve always felt like I was a little bit…different.
The fact is, I eat reasonably healthy most of the time, but I’m not a grazer.
Snacking on yogurt and fruit all day? No thanks…I’d rather have wait and have a big-ass, bust-your-gut meal. (Which is exactly what I do on the weekends. You only need to eat twice on the weekends: brunch and dinner.)
Now, I’ve tried to cure myself of this tendency to some extent. Because really, even if you’re eating a reasonable number of calories, busting your gut twice a day, every single day, probably isn’t healthy. Food comas are unproductive. And there’s plenty of research that supports small, frequent meals as ideal for keeping your metabolism running on high.
Aaaaand…chock-full bellies are bad for running. Really bad.
I (re)learned this lesson the hard way today. In typical python fashion, I had a tiny breakfast around 8, a little snack around 9, and then fasted until 3:30, when it occurred to me that I should probably eat lunch.
One whole frozen pizza. Right down the hatch. Ahhhhhh.
And then I sat, gazing at my distended navel, wondering how I was possibly going to run with this volleyball in my belly.
“Eh, it’s just pizza,” I told myself. “Wait for half an hour and you’ll be fine.”
You can probably guess how well that went.
I didn’t actually puke, but for the entire duration of my run that pizza was staging a rebellion in my esophagus. Planning its triumphant escape. After five horrible miles, I put up my white flag and headed home. You win, pizza.
And the worst part was that I couldn’t even feel sorry for myself because this condition was entirely brought on by me. Hrmph.
So my new project is to work on timing my food intake a little better. No more massive 3 PM lunches. No more pants-busting dinners. No more modeling my eating habits after reptiles with highly elastic gullets.
At least…not during the week.