Is it not a great and guilty pleasure to stand in the kitchen and stuff your face with leftovers without worrying about calories or manners?
On nights when Steve’s out, I love emptying the fridge of teflon containers and plastic-wrapped bowls and pouring myself a glass of wine for my kitchen counter feast. It’s so wonderfully decadent. And because the rule is no holds barred, I am so grossed out by my excessiveness that sticking to a game plan of fastidious gym attendance and low carb entrees is a piece of cake, until the next urge to splurge descends with a vengeance.
My pig-out leftovers don’t make it to the “teflon containers and plastic-wrapped bowls.” I do like to stand, though. The best pig-outs for me are after a party. Once the party is over, I walk amongst the ravaged, scooped-out platters and taste everything. Just a fork-full. Unless there is an open bag of potato chips. That I need to sit down for. I can eat them until the corners of my mouth are sore and split from the salt and sharp edges — until I roll on the floor, content, but with stomach curdling, and arms and legs splayed out in a gluttonous tribute to the joy of just letting go.