Stop Telling Me About “Clean Eating”

Stop Telling Me About "Clean Eating"

I have a coworker, we will refer to him as Toby, who is a gym fanatic and a “clean-eating” guru. There is not a single person on this earth who feels as though they are more entitled to an opinion about the solids and liquids that enters their body, as well as other people’s bodies. If you eat anything out of the “clean-eating” realm of acceptable solids and liquids, you’re lower than pond scum — you’re a weak-minded, body-abusive simpleton who cannot make good eating choices and who doesn’t use MyFitnessPal like some kind of “casual.”

Your burger and fries will always receive a scoff, that new seasonal beer special in your hand is “single-handedly destroying your innards,” and you’re making a grave mistake by not heeding the unsolicited advice you receive on a daily basis.

From the bottom of my heart, Toby: Fuck your diet.

Listen, I’m sure that the strict number of calories that you’re obsessively tracking and the quality of the food that must be strictly organic has some kind of impact on your life. I’m sure that there’s nothing boring about boiled chicken, brown rice, and steamed spinach, and I can assure you that I’m doubled over in jealousy that you make your meals ahead of time and portion the correct amounts for each of your six meals every day. I don’t need coffee or delicious beverages made from barely and hops. My body is a goddamn temple and my palette has never been cleaner with the absence of the poison I used to put into it.

But let’s get one thing straight here, Toby: My body is my body. I can do whatever the hell I want to do with it. If I want to have leftover pizza and a bloody mary for breakfast, then I will, because damn it, I like tomatoes. And if my lunch happens to be a Wendy’s #4 with a big Dr. Pepper, then you bet your sweet ass that I’m going to eat it right in front of you and let the sweet juice of beef, cheese and bacon drip onto the napkin that’s on my shirt while I watch you pretend to smile as you choke down a kale shake. When’s the last time you brought a sandwich from home and put Doritos in it for that extra crunch that it really needed? Don’t cry to me when everyone else wants to go to the watering hole and order mozzarella sticks and you’re asking the bartender about getting the bacon held from your wedge salad. Have you seen my 999 All-Star trophy mug? I know, it’s bigger than your Tough Mudder participant medal.

“But bro, do you even lift?” You mean, do I pay a monthly fine to go to a rebranded Subway in a common shopping plaza to lift weights that people of with unknown communicable diseases have been touching all day, all to fulfill some kind of bizarre expectation for men that was created by biased advertisers and other delusional media outlets? Fuck no. I have a set of adjustable dumbbells, a curl bar, and a pull-up bar in my apartment. These things get used maybe three times a week, if it’s feasible. They’re mine, I know they’re relatively clean, and they do everything I need them to do — shock the biceps, lock up the shoulders, rock the abs, and finish up with some cardio.

I like to keep my body guessing. You won’t find me in some CrossFit dungeon, balancing barbells on my shoulders while I leapfrog yoga balls on roller skates. I like my spinal column intact.

So let’s just get one thing clear: I don’t have time for your daily sermon about the Good News of FitFam today, and you don’t have to listen to my mocking enthusiasm about whatever you deem fit to spew about today. Let me enjoy my burrito, and I’ll leave you to this hour’s portion of chicken and beans, k?

Image via Shutterstock

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Living for the weekend.

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