anti-orthorexia

If I were a Zen Master or a Jedi, I’d probably be super chill and not worry so much about labels and diets and complicated regimens following this food plan or that one. I’d calmly acknowledge things like chocolate and bacon. I’d meditate in stretchy pants not because I had binge-stuffed my face prior but because it’s comfy meditating in stretchy pants. I’d bow my head in reverence of Dominique Ansel’s Cronut and Black Seed’s PBJ everything bagel, while humbly offering them to my gluten tolerant bestie and her miniature cockapoo. And when I finally got around to eating, because I was genuinely hungry and not just bored or sad or procrastinating or watching Netflix, I’d choose to celebrate earth’s bounty and eat a bunch of dirt. Aka veggies. Then I’d either go for a ride in the Millennium Falcon with Chewie or contemplate sweet nothingness under a Bodhi tree.

With a double shot pumpkin spice latte to go. No judgment.