Chili Mac and the Perils of Peristalsis

I am the victim of unfortunate circumstances: I love delicious foods, and I have a terrible stomach. I’m not going to get into a pissing match about who has a weaker stomach, because I will win. For a stretch in college, I could eat almost nothing. Even Cheerios made me sick. At its worst (which is blissfully behind us), this was a socially debilitating condition: I dated a fellow on and off for some two years and never once ate in front of him for fear of how my body might react. I could name every bathroom in the state of Maine from Kennebunk to Kingfield. I will spare you from the details of what this condition entails; suffice it to say that there are a great many foods that don’t sit well with me. What’s worst, there appears to be a direct correlation between deliciousness of food and propensity for said food to cause grave intestinal discomfort. As you might imagine, “Chili Mac” does not go over very well.

Chili Mac is an outstanding conglomerate of cuisines, combining vegetarian chili with Velveeta shells and cheese, and topped off with sour cream, salsa fresca, and tortilla chips. I recognize than in describing it, I am garnering no sympathy; is it any wonder that such a feast left me doubled over at my desk, popping Immodium like it was going out of style? I acknowledge that, yes, I should have known better. But is it fair that my sister, my own flesh and blood, can eat a box of mac and cheese with a side of Doritos, a glass of milk, and Devil Dogs for dessert and suffer no ill affects? Must I suffer alone, and in silence?

Apparently yes, because people don’t really want to talk about bowels. Though I should count my blessings that, miraculously, this predisposition hasn’t affected me during races, which is more than Deena Kastor can report (read about her tummy troubles in Chicago via Runner's World. Eek).

Anyway, the other unfortunate side effect of Chili Mac and its kitchen contemporaries is that it’s not super healthy (shocking, I know). To counteract this, I dragged myself to the gym and knocked out 7 after work today (after I had recovered from lunch). Much as I complain about working out after work, if I can actually get myself to do it, it's not too bad; there are sports on TV, and by 8:30, very few people there to irritate me with the way they look, run, smell, dress, or otherwise behave. Plus, running in the evening makes drinking a beer when you’re finished a lot more socially acceptable…