Several months ago Evan and I booked a trip to Los Angeles, just the two of us, for a friend's wedding reception. We looked forward to this mini-vacation IMMENSELY. A much needed respite from Tampa, and being parents, and the daily grind, you know how it is. My brother and future sister-in-law came down to watch the boys and we were to fly out Friday morning, returning Monday night. Or so I thought.
Actually, I booked our flights for THURSDAY morning. So when I went to check in Thursday midday, not only did I realize my mistake but the plane had already left. Without us on it. There was no way to fix the error without spending insane amounts of money, so our vacation became a "staycation" and in my sadness I decided that a weekend break from no fast food was more than acceptable.
Had we gone to LA, I had dreamed for months of all the delicious meals we would have. Aliki's (my favorite greek place on earth) Sasabune for Evan, and Animal and Lemonade and GTA and the to die for breakfast burritos that this little hole in the wall near our old apartment makes. Happy Hour with my girlfriends from my old job, In 'N Out eaten over a bonfire on the beach with friends, Coffee Bean in the morning with my best friend and Sprinkles, the list goes on.
It felt like a candle had been blown out when I realized, not only would we not get our trip away, to see all our friends, to be present for our dear friend's celebration, but all this food I had imagined, and quite honestly held up as a reward for all my sacrifices in skipping the junkie food here, was no longer going to happen.
So I got Starbucks and we ordered pizza and I had PDQ. It was nice. It wasn't great. I wasn't sad when Tuesday rolled around the "ban" was back in place. The food I put in my body, and the bodies of those I love, should be meaningful. I don't miss junkie fast food. I miss LA. And the people there and the life we lived, and all the incredible flavors that enhanced those experiences. Papa Johns and Chick-fil-A, I can leave those for everybody else.