I can remember the exact day -- the exact moment -- I
finished my first Big Mac. I had been trying for years but could never
master the enormous burger -- let alone get my wimpy, kid-sized fingers
around the thing. I felt a sense of accomplishment then -- and though
this probably provides too much of a window into how pathetic and
simple I was, there was also a sense of pride. Along with pain. Lots
and lots of pain.
Now, I look back and think, "Holy Jebus, man! How many Big Macs did I eat!"
Despite
the fact that I was practically nursed on milk shakes and french fries,
I have vowed never to take my daughter to McDonalds. Despite the fact I
was never obese or unhealthy as a kid, and the only lasting results
from all that gluttonous fast-food consumption as a child is a
gag-reflex revulsion to it today, I have decided the food is just too
fatty, just too unhealthy for the over-parenting health bubble I have created.
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