Foodproof

. . . enter chocolate.

Oh, don’t deny it.  We all had our food avoidance strategies.  The first time I had a slice of cheese (age four, at a wedding, where I was the Flower Girl), I thought I’d never swallow anything again, my trust was that broken.  The torturous “you can’t leave the table until you’ve finished your steamed spinach” was as effective as “just let the baby cry until her head explodes” strategy favored by the many popular published quacks of my childhood (although, in fairness, today’s quacks don’t give me much confidence either; the last two years being firm proof of that).

But a funny thing happened on the way to avoiding the dinner table: I ate primarily junk food until I was married, and it never showed on my skin, figure, or scale.  So, what’s afoot? 

I have a theory: Modern people are almost food-proof.  By that I mean even the most processed crap (I lived on Drake’s and McD’s and Jolly Rancher; my poor mother had no idea, but she was serving up Swanson’s and Gorton’s and Campbell’s, so . . . ) had enough life-sustaining substance to allow me to grow into a healthy adult.  That, and we walked or rode our bikes everywhere.  We were always active.  Gorging in front of the screen wasn’t a thing. And we smoked.

Incidentally, chocolate needs no defense.