It’s Donut Monday at at 3pm and I’m on day 5 of staring at a single piece of bacon sitting in a clear plastic container in my fridge since it arrived late last week. It looks lonely and confused. It’s a class B felony to instill willful neglect on such a tasty morsel in the Donut Monday household with a minimum 1 day ban on chores during football and the option for me to eat aforementioned tasty morsel without repercussions. I could and should eat it right now like a ravenous hungry male lion king but I know this is a trap that has been carefully placed by the only other species that dare challenge his reign – the lioness aka Mrs Donut Monday who “claimed” to be full and brought this piece of bacon home from breakfast out last Thursday in the aforementioned to-go container. Not that this action is out of the ordinary for her. I’ve seen her first hand drop kick any hovering waiter who dares to prematurely remove a plate and cross forearm windmill block an approaching fork from anyone else at the table she shares as long as there is a reasonable amount of food for later consumption. A single piece of bacon meets that threshold it seems but there’s much more at stake here. I could now see this to go order was clearly a throw down test of wills between man and woman and the sweet elongated strip of meat goodness that would ultimately decide the winner, and she had bet large money on the swine.
My track record up until that moment had not been strong. Since our initial courtship I have conservatively obliterated somewhere in the range of 30 meals that the wife had staked claim to for later consumption. I suspect this phenomenon occurs in most other relationships. It’s just one of the differences in the DNA between man vs woman that surfaces during long term co-habitation/aka marriage. A woman orders a meal based on a game-plan where crafty planning can stretch a doggie bag to make 3 additional meals over 7 days. A man takes a different approach and orders a meal based on 3 part rating system
If I order a meal and finish it will it be free and I’ll get my name on a plaque on a wall next to morbidly obese past customers?
If I don’t finish the meal will other men mock me in shame and will my wife start to wonder why I can’t get the job done?
If I don’t finish the meal and deny leftovers out of false bravado how much will I hate myself when I stake claim on the leftovers my wife will leave unattended in the fridge later that evening?
At first any self inflicted food ownership violations were met with playful banter with minimal repercussions. But as the violations stacked up over time and she realized no leftover was truly ever safe, pity gave way to frustration, anger and ultimately threats of sewing my mouth shut. I quickly realized the negative reaction upon confessing to my sin was a direct correlation depending on the anticipation of the illegally consumed leftover multiplied by the complexity of replacement. I call it the Highly Anticipated Nourishment Detriment Syndrome or the HANDSoff effect.
For instance eating the last 2 slices of pie from our local pizza joint only scored a manageable 4 on the “You Suck” scale as I could quickly make amends within a quick call and 20 min drive to make a pick up. On the other end of the spectrum, consuming the remainder of a shrimp burrito recently hauled back all the way from her favorite burrito joint in her college hometown 100 miles away scores a solid 9 with a ten minute sustained stare-down like a man who was just caught clubbing a baby seal.
Back to the single piece of bacon in the present moment which has been tormenting me the last 5 days. I decided early on to to fight the good fight and represent manhood full on knowing that I’m a seasoned pro that is going to own the bacon situation and not let it own him. I document my journey along the way.
Thursday Day 1 – I check to see what the expiration date on cooked bacon under the notion that the threat of food poisoning will mitigate my primal urge to consume. No data exists. Studies show no bacon has lasted longer than 30 minutes before ultimate consumption in 150 years of studies in controlled environments.
Friday Day 2 – Bacon themed nightmares begin. I bolt up out of bed that night in a cold sweat when my wife won’t stop the car to pilfer free Premium Center Cut product from a jackknifed Oscar Meyer delivery truck on the side of the road.
Saturday Day 3 – During my daily refrigerated pork surveillance, the 9 year old asks if he can eat this last piece of bacon in the fridge and for a moment I contemplate letting him just to see what happens. I imagine poison darts shooting out to cut him down mid bite or a trap door opening up beneath him and I think better of it. I let the boy live atleast till Sunday and re-evaluate my options.
Sunday Day 4 – 37 minutes. Turns out that’s how long you can stare blankly into an open fridge before you permanently screw up the cooling system.
Monday Day 5 – I gather the family in the kitchen and announce there is no Santa Claus just a moment before I eat the singular piece of bacon in one bite. I figure better to embrace the role of scoundrel and control my destiny. On the plus side it’s one level higher than that of an accused baby seal clubber.
I am a weak yet fulfilled man