Last night, I went out spur-of-the-moment with some friends to a new Thai/hibachi/sushi place in town. When you live in a small town, these things happen. You get consolidation of your ethnic cuisines to make it really count. In high school, I worked at the video rental counter at a local grocery/hardware store/pharmacy/video rental place. They remodeled a few years later and I swear you could buy house paint within about five yards of the milk cooler.
But yeah. We went out. I hadn't accounted for this in my daily food plan, especially during the afternoon part when I ate two cookies (behold the powers of menstruation to make bad decisions seem reasonable). I was just going to get a little sushi--light, simple sushi. Then I got a taste for it, and Menses, the Greek God of hormonal shitstorms, drove me to act against my better instincts. I order more. MORE! MORE! MORE! I ate a lot of spicy shrimp rolls. That's all I'm saying.
There were two upsides. 1) The wasabi totally cleared out my congested sinuses. 2) I got home and looked up sushi in my WW planner, and I remembered just how not bad for you sushi is. Even with my wine and face stuffing, I was only a few points over my limits (and I was totally honest about how much I ate!).
It seems sushi is a good choice for those days when estrogenicide takes over. At least it's better than two cookies, though they were really delicious.
"It seems sushi is a good choice for those days when estrogenicide takes over." Awesome sentence, not only in terms of the information conveyed through it (yay Sushi!) but also in terms of language.
ReplyDelete