For the Love of Cheetos

I ate a bag of puffed Cheetos this afternoon.  It was a little bag; it had maybe 8 Cheetos in it.  I prefer the crunchy kind, but Diane doesn't like the puffy ones at all and we only had one bag of crunchy ones left at the office, and I am kind and generous like that.  I was eating the Cheetos because it was a Tuesday, a gym day, and Diane and I have found that eating a few bites of greasy salt about an hour and a half before we go to BodyPump really does help us prevent the dreaded calf cramps.  Calf cramps interfere with your ability to do a good static lunge.  Of course, my screwed-on-at-a-45-degree-angle right knee interferes with my ability to do a good static lunge even more so, but the many sources of my physical awkwardness are not the point of this post.  The Cheetos are.

I had to eat the Cheetos very quickly, because I had to go get my cootie shot, which is what I am calling my allergy shot, because I recently found out that I am allergic to all kinds of grass pollens and I also have a mild allergy to soy.  Remember that fact, because it will become relevant later.  I knew if I waited until after the shot to eat the Cheetos I would be burping up Cheetos while I did tricep extensions and clean-and-presses or whatnot, and I have learned from experience that is an outcome to be avoided if at all possible.  Since I was going to get my cootie shot at the doctor's office, I knew I was going to get weighed.  And although me and the staff at my doctors' office(s) are the only people who know how much I weigh (I ain't telling, even *I* have secrets, and they are forbidden by HIPPA to tell you) and it isn't like they are going to judge me any more (or less) than they did last week when I weighed in, I still felt the need to get rid of as much liquid weight in my body as possible before stepping on the evil scale. 

I won't get into too much detail here, for the obvious reasons, but it is relevant to the story that my liquid removal procedure involved unbuttoning my pants.  Today I was wearing a yellow button down ruffled shirt along with white fake-linen pants.  I like these pants, because the cut of the leg is such that it gives the illusion that my legs are not quite as short and stubby as they actually are, and the flowy bottoms distract from the byproducts of aging happening along my torso.  I have a pair of cork-heeled yellow patent leather wedges that also make me feel tall and fashionable that go perfectly with the outfit, but I was wearing my dumpy brown leather practical flat sandals because if I have learned nothing else in 42 years on this planet, it is that it is a lot easier to stay in a good mood when your feet don't ache.

Anyhoo, I unbuttoned my pants, and when it was time to rebutton them, I noticed that there was an orange fingerprint on the fabric surrounding the button.  Neon, Cheeto orange, a color that is not found in nature, but which is envied by poison dart frogs and other small animals trying to look poisonous to predators everywhere.  I made a noise like "grrrr" and cursed myself for merely licking off my fingertips instead of washing them, under the theory that I was just going to have to wash my hands after I did my business anyway, and it seemed like a waste of time.  (A waste of time and sweet, sweet Cheeto flavoring.) I did my best to de-Cheeto my pants, and was only semi-successful.  Thankfully, the yellow ruffly shirt covered up the part of my pants with the orange fingerprint, and most of the orange was on the inside of the flappy thing that covers the button.

Then I went to the doctor's office.  While I was waiting for my turn to be jabbed with a needle in the batwing that has recently grown on the back of my arm, I posted the following on Facebook: "Rule for successful living #368: never eat Cheetos while wearing white pants." 

This engendered a surprising number of comments.  The commenters (and the lurkers who didn't comment themselves but who clicked "like" on other people's comments) fell into three camps: 1) What kind of a moron wears white pants to begin with? 2)  Mmmmmmmm Cheetos and 3) Cheetos are not food, they are a toxic byproduct of something else and will kill you quicker than Russian Roulette.

First of all, I don't want to live in a world without Cheetos.  (This comment on its own got four likes as of this writing.)  Cheetos are a guilty pleasure that I love in the way that I love in the way that I love watching America's Funniest Videos.  No nutritional value whatsoever, but pure fun, sensory, don't-think-about-it-too-much-or-you'll-spoil-it pleasure.  I know my friends mean well, and are only concerned about my health and future, but truly, save it.  I have never in my life lit up a cigarette, I don't drink sodas, I wear sunscreen, I wear my seatbelt, I don't use illegal drugs, I don't drink much and never drive when I do, I eat plenty of fruits and vegetables -- some of which I even grow organically in my own back yard.  And -- hello?  I AM ALLERGIC TO SOY!  Go ahead.  Go to the health food department of any Supermarket.  I triple dog dare you to find anything with an actual flavor that doesn't have soy ingredients in it.  I used to feel very virtuous ordering tofu as my 'meat' in Asian restaurants - now I know that my 'healthy' choice is part of the reason why I walk around feeling so crappy and worn down all the time. 

Besides which, Cheetos are chock full of preservatives.  *Preserv*atives.  They *preserve* you, right?  How could that be bad?  (Back off, humorless literalists -- haven't you learned not to take me seriously yet?)  And why aren't they spelled "Cheetoes"?

So yes, friends.  I do in fact know what the studies show.  But Cheetos are not arsenic, they are not a staple of my diet, they are not a substitute for carrots, nor are they responsible for the turmoil in the Middle East.  I will continue to eat Cheetos (or, when I am in the north, Cheez Doodles) because I like them.  And that is reason enough.  Next time, however, I will not be wearing white pants.