Pizza is a 4-letter word

Every Friday night, I’m inevitably confronted with a Shakespearean proposition: To eat or not to eat? After two weeks of strictly disciplined food intake, I decided (by way of an ill-reasoned mental calculation) it was time for a treat.

Of course, my idea of a treat is a salad. But my husband insisted on pizza. If I were in his shoes, I’d insist on pizza too. Bastard can eat without consequence. So we ate. And I ate. Half a large pizza later, I’m ready to be rolled out of the restaurant and asking myself if it was worth it. The answer: it never is. This morning the scale was there to remind me why.