“Age is just a number,” I say, as I place my sandwich inside it’s plastic bag. Numbers. Expiration dates. I pack my own lunch. It adds up and I save a lot.
I also risk a lot too.
But this stomach of mine is trained and conditioned like a warrior. In this one bedroom apartment, we don’t “throw things out.” And by we I mean me, but it’s a house rule, so it applies to everyone who comes through, if they ever come through.
I don’t waste food. I rather die! Bring it!
Those left over and forgottens in the far back corner of the refrigerator?
Well now I remember.
That green mold?
It hasn’t killed me yet!
That black mold?
I can dig it out. I can make things work.
I like to boast my iron gut. The exile my colleagues have given me is an honor; it’s proof of my commitment. They’re all weaker and they know it. All those who have witnessed me eat lunch have responded towards me with nothing less than anger and disdain.
And I will always proudly accept that.
It’s an expected outcome of the lifestyle. I don’t see anything wrong with what I’m doing either, so why not stand proudly for what I believe? I cannot be moved. I ate a woman’s discarded apple core once just to show people what I’m capable of.
Junk food just has a different meaning to most people than it does to me.
It don’t believe in it.
All food is good food.
Ask yourself, “How many pounds of food do I throw out a year?”
If you can’t answer honestly, it’s likely because you’re ashamed.
But unlike most society, I have no shame.
My food waste number is a negative. I go out looking for spoiled and tossed food to eat once everything at home has been finished. I pick off of tables that have yet to be bused when I go out to restaurants. Why even order an appetizer?
Aside from my convictions regarding food, and my passion for battling food waste, it’s worth mentioning that there’s at least one more thing that I’m also really really good at. And that is my job. I am really really good at my job. I can say this with total confidence, because out of all the complaints I have received over the years, not a single one has equalled a termination, yet.
I remain employed. I remain on the winning side.
When I eat in the cafeteria alone every day at work, I have a feeling of ownership and victory; the cafeteria is my conquered territory.
Everyone goes out to eat. Or eats at their desk. Or in their car.
The warrior gut continues on and does not compromise or relent! Ever! The warrior gut will conquer and conquer again!
Sometimes the challenge is mold or staleness, other times what’s most difficult to ingest is the reality of other people’s lives, and the feelings I get when I think about the contents of their kitchen waste baskets.
I know that at least I live my life with honor.
And I’m sincerely not sure if everyone is getting a way from me, or if they’re giving me my space.
But it makes everywhere I go feel just like home.
The public offers me the same kind of alone time that my apartment also does.