I ride the protein train for most of the day.
In the morning, I’m a fan of egg whites, sometimes lentils (don’t judge), cottage cheese, yogurt and/or milk. Lunch is chicken along with some sort of wedge a la Laughing Cow, and usually a veggie or two.
I know that my rough patches happen in the late afternoon and evenings, so to stave off hunger and any nausea or light-headedness, I travel with tuna.
I used to go for a bag of baked chips, a co-worker’s chocolate stash or an afternoon coffee beverage, but those liked to wreak havoc on my blood sugar, on my stability. A small can of tuna is able to make things right with the world for at least a few hours, and it’s my trusty little go-to when the going gets rough. All that said, a particular can of tuna has traveled 200 miles this week alone — all without being feasted upon. I packed it on Monday, and denied it later that day. Tuesday it was packed again, but I once again ignored when the hunger pangs visited me. Tuna just wasn’t what I had a hankering for.
Wednesday? Yep — tuna cast aside, once again. In its place I consumed a co-worker’s mini Kit-Kat bar. OK, two. But, I say again, they were mini. But even “mini” adds up when you’re counting your Weight Watchers points.
I didn’t pop the can open on Thursday, and tonight when I arrived home, I took it out of my lunch bag and set it on the counter. I could feel its cold little can scowling at me. The tuna’s disappointment was palpable.
So I fed it to the cat.
Hey, if not me, someone’s going to enjoy it. Or something. Meow.
Tonight I am thankful for knowing my edible rights from wrongs and, even though I didn’t enjoy my little canned, formerly-finned wonder, I am glad the cat did.