Tuesday Sinner, Wednesday Saint

It’s Ash Wednesday, which in my case marks the first of 40 days and nights of unmitigated crankiness because I give up sweets for Lent. Like any self-respecting Catholic, I crammed as much of my vice in yesterday as possible, snacking on some M&Ms after lunch and eating a half a piece of chocolate cake from Tryst for dinner. Fat Tuesday indeed. I find it takes the sting out of the Lenten kickoff if I get myself to the point where the mere mention of a petit four makes me want to hurl. Mission accomplished. Fair warning though: by Day 15 you’ll likely find me licking the glass at Patisserie Poupon. But what always amazes me is that at the end of Lent I feel thinner, have more energy, and have faster running times, yet my delight over those developments lasts only long enough to locate my Easter basket and start popping Cadbury eggs and Peeps into my cheeks like a chipmunk storing up for a nuclear winter. The health benefits are just never enough in my mind to outweigh the majesty of strawberry shortcake.

(And yes I realize that this post conflicts with Jesus's policy of not letting the right hand know what the left hand is doing when it comes to acts of religious sacrifice, but Jesus didn’t have to come up with 300+ blog posts a year.)