WELL HI!
This post is brought to you by an inexplicable Marie Calendar's pie in the oven, a pair of very comfortable spandex capris, and something verging on boredom (a winning Saturday night combo, if I may say so myself)(and I may).
The pie is inexplicable because shouldn't I be sick of pie by now? And also I'm home alone.
While we're discussing my health, the last month has been quite the back and forth. Bursts of spin classes and vitamins followed swiftly by pizza and mini candy bars.
An image for you: around Halloween, I found myself working late and tossing back fun-size candy bars (side note: who in the H-E-double hockey sticks thought they could get away with such a misleading label?). After finishing a large stack of grading (applause, please) I tossed a rather heavy bundle of paper into the nearby trash and poof--wrappers swirled and eddied, evidence of my Halloween gluttony.
Furthermore, I purchased Nutella a few weeks back which shall henceforth be known as a study in self-discipline. The findings were humbling.
And, oh! Before we abandon What Regan Ate and How She Feels About It, I went to the dentist a month or so back and attempted some associative psychology (probably not a real thing, as I'm pretty sure I coined the term. Wait, no, google tells me it exists...er, ignore me). While my dentist was drilling away at my cavities (which I conveniently forgot to mention were the result of one of my health schemes where I replace real dessert with suckers) I told myself repeatedly: this horrible drilling sensation? This is what eating ice cream feels like. Ice cream equals pain. Ice cream is bad.
It's possible I didn't use enough Pavlov-ian bells or something, because I still find immense joy in a bowl of ice cream.
Let's give a round of applause to parenthetical asides and an internet era that encourages rambling.
Oof.
I had some jokes and deep existential musings to share with you tonight, but now that seems like a rather abrupt shift in tone, no?
I pinky promise I think about more than food. And yet, at the risk of putting the nail in my food-coffin, I have a picture of pie to take us away.
My honors students are reading The Help, thus chocolate pie day.
Fun fact: some of my students were deeply apprehensive about eating the pie. I heard numerous mutterings of the like, "I think, legally, she can't put you know what in the pie." And a few of my infamous worriers hovered at the back of the pie line, carefully observing the facial expressions of those brave pie-eating pioneers.
This post is brought to you by an inexplicable Marie Calendar's pie in the oven, a pair of very comfortable spandex capris, and something verging on boredom (a winning Saturday night combo, if I may say so myself)(and I may).
The pie is inexplicable because shouldn't I be sick of pie by now? And also I'm home alone.
While we're discussing my health, the last month has been quite the back and forth. Bursts of spin classes and vitamins followed swiftly by pizza and mini candy bars.
An image for you: around Halloween, I found myself working late and tossing back fun-size candy bars (side note: who in the H-E-double hockey sticks thought they could get away with such a misleading label?). After finishing a large stack of grading (applause, please) I tossed a rather heavy bundle of paper into the nearby trash and poof--wrappers swirled and eddied, evidence of my Halloween gluttony.
Furthermore, I purchased Nutella a few weeks back which shall henceforth be known as a study in self-discipline. The findings were humbling.
And, oh! Before we abandon What Regan Ate and How She Feels About It, I went to the dentist a month or so back and attempted some associative psychology (probably not a real thing, as I'm pretty sure I coined the term. Wait, no, google tells me it exists...er, ignore me). While my dentist was drilling away at my cavities (which I conveniently forgot to mention were the result of one of my health schemes where I replace real dessert with suckers) I told myself repeatedly: this horrible drilling sensation? This is what eating ice cream feels like. Ice cream equals pain. Ice cream is bad.
It's possible I didn't use enough Pavlov-ian bells or something, because I still find immense joy in a bowl of ice cream.
Let's give a round of applause to parenthetical asides and an internet era that encourages rambling.
Oof.
I had some jokes and deep existential musings to share with you tonight, but now that seems like a rather abrupt shift in tone, no?
I pinky promise I think about more than food. And yet, at the risk of putting the nail in my food-coffin, I have a picture of pie to take us away.
My honors students are reading The Help, thus chocolate pie day.
Fun fact: some of my students were deeply apprehensive about eating the pie. I heard numerous mutterings of the like, "I think, legally, she can't put you know what in the pie." And a few of my infamous worriers hovered at the back of the pie line, carefully observing the facial expressions of those brave pie-eating pioneers.
Which grade of honors students read The Help?
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