Bless me, readers, I have sinned . . .

199 pounds

According to food guru Michael Pollan, the obesity problem in our country would be solved if we all ate every meal at home from here on out.

I agree with Pollan, but I'd back away from his extreme solution by one step and say that we should all only allow ourselves one meal out a week.

I mean, come on, Michael.

You don't want us to EVER eat out again?

You can't expect a nation raised on Happy Meals and pan pizza to go cold turkey like that. And once a week is a pretty good goal. There's no way that wouldn't make a dent in our nation's collective girth.

And I don't mind sticking to once a week if I have to.

In fact, that's what Dave and I try to do. To be honest, we've become pretty darn routine about it. Saturday nights, we see a movie and go out to eat. It's downright scary how much we've become like my parents who took us out to eat every Saturday night after mass when I was growing up. I guess you could argue that Catholic mass is its own form of theatre, huh?

Despite the similarity of my own life to that of my parents', I'd be happy to stick to the eating-out-once-a-week routine if I could. The problem is that things keep getting in the way.

For instance, I had to go the doctor today—does this just happen more often as you get older?—and after numerous tests and x-rays and surgical gown changes, I decided that I deserved lunch out on the town.

(In case you're wondering, Dave and I went to Taquiera Azteca on Old Morgantown Road, which has some mean tacos de carne asada if you're ever in Bowling Green, Kentucky.)

I don't know why I always want to go out to eat after I go to the doctor. It just feels right—I figure if I have to suffer a little, I should live a little too. Know what I mean?

The problem is that it violates my only-eat-out-once-a-week rule.

And going to the doctor isn't the only thing that causes me to break this rule. Going shopping or to a movie also makes me want to eat out. As does running errands. Or going to campus when school's not in session. It's almost as if I think that if I leave the house at all, I deserve some kind of culinary reward.

And let's face it—that is seriously f***ed up.

Maybe Pollan's right. Maybe I should go cold turkey. But it's hard to imagine doing that if I can't even cut back to once a week.