french fries

Yesterday was a true run around the city as tourists day. We started off at bead stores in midtown (upper 30s on 6th avenue), fought our way through the Dominican Republic Day parade and ended up at the Nintendo Store in Rockefeller Center. From there it was a crazy trip through an underground concourse looking for a bathroom before hunger  and dizziness hit. I'm still not sure whether it was the heat, my sinuses, the bad night's sleep or the constant noise of 20 video games being played simultaneously, but I needed something to eat.

Being a vegetarian with two picky eaters in tow isn't an easy thing in general. And here we were crabby, starving and in tourist central. So, when Jon suggested 5 Guys, I said yes. He was the only burger eater of the group but the rest of us could live on french fries in the short term.

Here's the deal though—while Iz and Jack often fill up on fries to tide them over, I never do. My french fry ban is an anorexic holdover. I don't know that I've eaten an order of fries in 20 or more years. We've been at restaurants that have been honored for the superiority of their fries but none have ever passed my lips. But yesterday, without a second thought, I got my own order and munched away.

I have to say, they were damn good. I even tried ketchup, which I generally can't stand, and found it wasn't as bad as I remember.

I didn't gain 20 pounds. My face didn't break out in sheen of greasy pimples. My head didn't explode off my body. I didn't eat 5 large orders.

I was fine. My body's fine. The fries were good.

And I let go of a negative trap that's had its hold on me for years. I don't know that I'll need to order fries every time I go out to eat, but it's nice to know the option's there and I can handle it.

With age comes acceptance. Rationality. A better sense of logic and reason. I love that too.