Cheat Day

Friday. And for Me? Cheat Day.

No. Not that kind of cheating. I love my wife. That is that.

Cheat day. Food. The complete, reckless abandonment of all dietary sensibility and caution for a sixty-one-year-old man who has not been kind to his body.

Contact sports? Check. U.S. Military service? Check. Not kind to it in all the worst of ways — including not watching my diet closely. The body was a machine I ran hard and maintained poorly. For decades.

Then, five — maybe six — years ago, my body said, Whoa there, fella. I can't do this any longer. When you were young and getting after it, I could. I managed. Because you kept the engine tuned and running hot. Now you're coasting.

So I listened.

Started eating better. Mostly good. Then all good. But my body and my mind — still not aligned. My mind was like, Fuck this. I want the donut. I want that Mountain Dew. And my body was saying, Hell no — your brain is trying to kill you.

So I — yes, me — I told my brain and my body: I am still in charge of this motherfucking temple.

One day a week, I cheat.

And cheating starts at zero seven hundred. Zero seven hundred is when the corporate café opens. And while it is still just an industrialized, institutional menu of bland, make-sure-we-are-safe fare most days — on Fridays, they do this thing.

A breakfast self-serve buffet. And one of the offerings is…

Biscuits and gravy.

Now look — it's not like grandma made. It's not south-of-the-Mason-Dixon made. But for upstate New York, capital region made? It is a pretty passable, damned good plate of biscuits and gravy. All for seven dollars and ninety-five cents a pound.

So what am I doing as I write this blog?

Cheating. Eating my fifteen dollars and thirty-two cents worth of biscuits and gravy.

Don't judge me.

I love you all.

— Tyler

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