Guilt

My girls' 10th(!) birthday was yesterday, and it was really nice. All my friends weren't able to be there because the party was all age-appropriate kids, no toddlers or similar. Everybody who showed up was between 8 and 13 years old. Pretty cool.

We ate burgers and Cheetos and drank fresh and delicious homemade strawberry lemonade. I think it was Cassandra who made it, but Tracy may have helped. Huge kudos either way, on the best drink ever.

Jim asked me a strange question. Well, it was a pretty straightforward question, but it struck me as strange because it's so alien a thought to me.

That question? "You're eating Cheetos? You gonna go guilt-run?"

I have never exercised out of guilt. Ever. I've exercised out of frustration, anger, irritability, and boredom, but not guilt.

You see, I eat well. The vast majority of the time, I eat healthy, whole food without high fructose corn syrup or hydrogenated rapeseed oil. And I get a lot of exercise. I make it to the gym about three times a week and run once or twice per week and play disc golf or ride my bike for transportation or walk or what have you.

That's an actual dinner I ate once. I had help.

So when my daughter's birthday rolls around and I eat a handful of Cheetos and more watermelon than I really need, the last thing I need to do is shake it all up like a carbonated beverage in my belly by running. No, I just move on. I gymmed the next day, but it was because I hadn't done anything in two days, not because I was punishing myself for eating Cheetos. Eating Cheetos is punishment enough. What they do to the inside of your mouth and to your fingertips is incredible.

Being healthy is something you are. It's not something you do. But living, being alive, is also something you are and do. Punishing yourself for living is what religious people do. My self-loathing is far too small for that nonsense.