I’m not as concerned with sodium as health authorities want me to be. Not my doctor, by the way, but rather social justice warriors who take it upon themselves to spread anti-sodium propaganda.
Everyone is so worried about sodium. How much sodium is in that? Don’t want to exceed the maximum daily recommended amount for the day. It could kill me! (Ahem, nerd alert!)
I don’t care whether a serving has 2 grams of sodium or 9,000 grams. I don’t know what the maximum daily recommended amount is, and I don’t want to. As Jay-Z famously said, I’ve got ninety-nine problems but salt ain’t one.
While you’re spending valuable time scrutinizing the nutrition panel, trying to do math on the fly to gauge your sodium consumption for the day, I’m already eating. I don’t have high blood pressure, so it’s not going to be a problem for me. I’m tough like that. It’s my superhero power, really.
But here’s the rub: I’m not even into salty food; I’ve got a sweet tooth. With irritable bowel syndrome to contend with now and diabetes looming in my future, the outlook isn’t good. Sugar love-hates my body and my body love-hates sugar. I’m weak like that.
I strike a balance by eating cheddar popcorn mixed with caramel popcorn. The very definition of moderation.
P.S. — Can anyone tell me why I crave Coke every January?
Did you know that a horse can’t vomit? If a horse gets sick, it’s game over.
Each weekend when you pick up your first drink, you agree to accept vomiting as the outcome. You know the likelihood that you will drink to excess and end up puking on the sidewalk as you bar hop with your pals.
Meanwhile, that poor horse is sober. Involuntarily. He knows it will mean certain death if he reaches for beer #2.
As for me, before I take any action, I ask myself: Are you OK with dying while engaged in this activity? That’s my criteria. I don’t want “Died on the teacups at Disney” engraved on my tombstone. My epitaph doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic. My last activity just has to be something I enjoy and would be proud to die while doing.
“Entombed here while still seated at her beloved desk is Angie, who died writing a blog post.”
After hundreds of years of us believing dinosaurs to look and behave a certain way, scientists are suddenly pulling the rug out from under us and saying, “Maybe these creatures actually had feathers. Maybe they sang instead of roared. Maybe they were blue and purple rather than brown or grey.”
Even if you have it on good authority that these proto-chickens looked any different than images shared with us civilians to date, please just let sleeping dinosaurs lie, scientists. Don’t switch it up now. (Same goes for Pluto’s planetary status being rescinded. But I digress).
Yet, change is the only constant. Death, taxes, and change — everyone’s least favorite things — continue to plague us eon after eon.
As I acknowledge this new year that has befallen us, I commit to filling my life with joy, laughter, and new experiences. This year, change isn’t going to scare me. I’m going to tightly embrace change until it feels smothered and cries “Uncle!”
I invite you to do the same. Let’s shake shit up. Not for anarchy, but for progress.
Citizens of the world: listen up. We’re tired of you meddling in our affairs. Stop caring for us in zoos and artificially inseminating us to keep our species alive.
We do everything we can to communicate that we don’t wish to keep living. Yet, you keep intervening. Take a hint, people!
We don’t roar, maul, or defend our babies like other bears. We only eat bamboo which provides no nutritional value whatsoever, hence why we are perpetually oh-so-sleepy, keep toppling over, and have no sex drive.
We’ve got the benefit of four legs but can’t be bothered to stand. We’re the clumsiest animals of all time, which doesn’t help us feel physically attracted to each other. Neither does our perpetually dirty butts.
Seriously, give up the cause, people. Let us go quietly into oblivion.