Confession is good for the soul...but maybe not the body

It is important to have good friends with whom to discuss one's concerns and even one's faults, and from whom one can receive support and encouragement. The Hero and I recently spent a delightful evening with some friends, sharing food, games, and interesting topics of conversation. Near the end of the evening, our female friend confided to the rest of us one of her faults, which was a heavy burden to her.


"I love fast food," she said, sighing.


This surprised the Hero and I, as she always seems very health conscious. She is the only person I know who can make fat-free taste like actual food. Earlier in the evening she had been pleased to know that the ice cream I had served was "slow churned" (which means "sounds more healthy"). But she could not hide her love for grease and fat. 


"I know I shouldn't like it," she said. "But it's just so good."


In a society where we are constantly being bombarded with anti-junk food messages, I admired her bravery in confiding her weakness. I hastened to support and encourage her. "It's refreshing to hear someone admit they like fast food," I said. 


She took little comfort in this, though. "It doesn't even matter which one -- I love them all. McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King...."


"Oooooo, Burger King," I said, practically swooning despite my resolve to not let on that I, too, am partial to fast food.


"...Big Mac, Filet-o-fish, Wendy's little square hamburgers..."


We had eaten a very nice meal out that night, and had just had ice cream, but suddenly I was getting hungry.


The Hero asked who she thought had the best french fries, and this stimulated a lively discussion about the yummy little coating on Burger King fries, floppy McDonald's fries that are the best but only if they're fresh, and the curly fries at Arby's -- "Arby's! Oh, we don't have an Arby's around us," she lamented. 


While she was in confession mode, she also admitted that she longed to have a recliner in their sitting room. Clearly her husband did not share this desire. Recliners were big, and dumpy, and took up too much room, he said, and they should be reserved for one's elder years. She knew all this, but insisted that there were NEW kinds of recliners out now, not so big and dumpy, and "not your father's recliner." She wanted to be able to put her feet up when she watched TV ("watch TV," we learned, was code for "fall asleep while the TV blathers on").


The Hero suggested adding a footstool instead of a recliner.


"That won't do," the husband said. "She likes to put her feet WAY up."


The discussion had evidently been occurring between them for some time, and while it did not get resolved that evening, the husband at least reluctantly agreed that perhaps not all recliners were created equal. I suspected that this agreement was mainly for our benefit, however.


I did not in the least think poorly of our friend for confessing her weakness, and I am proud to say that I did not, as soon as they had left our home, rush out to get a Whopper Junior and fries. I did feel, however, that this restraint entitled me to more ice cream. After all, it was slow-churned.