It’s been a month since I ate McDonalds. 30 days. I’m shocked that I’ve been able to give it up. I don’t usually have this kind of will power. I can’t even really say it was difficult. I made a decision and I’ve stuck with it. Honestly, I can barely see the Golden Arches in the rearview mirror. I’m not craving. I’m not dreaming. I’m not even thinking McD.
Even my beat up old Saab is better. It’s not full of crumbs or sesame seeds. There’s no grease on the steering wheel. I’m not worried about Erica finding a used wrapper in the car. The Saab has driven by McD’s a bunch of times – there’s one just two minutes down the road – but it hasn’t turned in.
For the first time in 41 years I’ve followed through on a decision to stop eating something unhealthy. T. Don, my longtime therapist says I should be proud of myself. I’m not even sure what that means. It didn’t occur to me to feel anything about the choice until he mentioned it. But he’s right.
I’m proud. Take that, Mickey D.
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