The Keg And I
Last night, the "boys" and I went for dinner at The Keg, a sort of middle-of-the-road restaurant chain that some of you will know.
While swapping tales about our lives, we ate and ate and ate. The seemingly unending onslaught of appetizers we ordered would probably have fed a family of six for at least a week. I was full somewhere between the salad and the scallops, long before I even laid eyes on the prime rib that I had ordered. But, for whatever reason, I ploughed through to the end.
Thank goodness I was so near unconsciousness by the end of my dinner that I had the good sense, or maybe it was just blind luck, to skip dessert.
Overindulgence, no make that outright gluttony, is one of the seven deadly sins. Last night, I pretty much rehearsed how the excesses of food can kill you. It's not death in the truest sense, but more like a near-death experience. I'm not sure which is ultimately worse.
This morning, I'm doing the bob-and-weave. The place seems to be shifting beneath my feet a little more dramatically than usual, and the furniture seems to want to knock me down and out in some kind of absurd sparring session. Even as I punch in these little letters, the "t's" and "l's" seem to want to dance around the screen, as if doing some weird form of a wedding-reception chicken dance. The gentler vowels seem ready to faint at a moment's notice.
I need water. I suspect the little "extras" that restaurants put in their food dehydrate you. A shower may snap me to attention as well. Then, it's off to the gym. Sure, I'd love to skip my morning exercise, but my workout partner would never forgive me. At least he's a cardiologist, so if I collapse from the aftershocks of clarified butter dip, well, he should know what to do.
Last night, the "boys" and I went for dinner at The Keg, a sort of middle-of-the-road restaurant chain that some of you will know.
While swapping tales about our lives, we ate and ate and ate. The seemingly unending onslaught of appetizers we ordered would probably have fed a family of six for at least a week. I was full somewhere between the salad and the scallops, long before I even laid eyes on the prime rib that I had ordered. But, for whatever reason, I ploughed through to the end.
Thank goodness I was so near unconsciousness by the end of my dinner that I had the good sense, or maybe it was just blind luck, to skip dessert.
Overindulgence, no make that outright gluttony, is one of the seven deadly sins. Last night, I pretty much rehearsed how the excesses of food can kill you. It's not death in the truest sense, but more like a near-death experience. I'm not sure which is ultimately worse.
This morning, I'm doing the bob-and-weave. The place seems to be shifting beneath my feet a little more dramatically than usual, and the furniture seems to want to knock me down and out in some kind of absurd sparring session. Even as I punch in these little letters, the "t's" and "l's" seem to want to dance around the screen, as if doing some weird form of a wedding-reception chicken dance. The gentler vowels seem ready to faint at a moment's notice.
I need water. I suspect the little "extras" that restaurants put in their food dehydrate you. A shower may snap me to attention as well. Then, it's off to the gym. Sure, I'd love to skip my morning exercise, but my workout partner would never forgive me. At least he's a cardiologist, so if I collapse from the aftershocks of clarified butter dip, well, he should know what to do.
