The Price of a Jones

Dearest Rachel –

Obviously, you know I’m not talking about the mythical neighbors who our generation (and the one before us) would often attempt to try to “keep up with.” You and I, while growing up, never had the same tastes as the general public, as we knew them to be; why expend the effort and expense to be like them when we didn’t really want to in the first place? Indeed, it was a certain point of pride to march to a different drummer, after a point. It may have led to occasional ostracism in school, back in the day, but once each of us learned to embrace it in our own way while growing up, it became a badge of honor – we weren’t like the other sheep (which, given the meaning of your name, seems a little ironic). Equally ironic that our entire generation eventually learned to do so, inadvertently putting us in the vanguard of that zeitgeist. To be sure, your typical nonconformist (yeah, those are two words that belong next to each other) GenXer still had tastes and mores that didn’t match ours precisely, but defiant outsider choices and attitudes were eventually celebrated rather than mocked. We were just ahead of the curve.

But no, I’m talking about a different type of jones. And I’ve mentioned it before, since we used to use it as a synonym for a craving back in the day. Anyway, I finally got around to looking the term up, and it seems to have had its origins in the Sixties’ drug culture to refer to a heroin addiction; “Mr. Jones” was sort of a personification of the concept (giving it a personality separate from the user themself, allowing them to externalize blame and responsibility. Maybe it was a pseudonymous dealer?), before he lost his honorific and even his capitalization over time… as was as being applied to somewhat more anodyne cravings. It was a shocking discovery, but considering the popularization of portmanteaus like ‘chocoholism,’ and the addiction that it sources itself from, it shouldn’t have come as that big of a surprise.

In any event, after three days of working out one way or another (true, the walks with Lars aren’t nearly as strenuous as when I go through my paces on the treadmill, but they cover more distance – and Monday’s literally had us going an extra mile, for some reason – and take up more time), I was in the mood to treat myself a bit. This attitude probably should have been a red flag in and of itself, but as I’ve been known to both backslide and recover, I didn’t – and still don’t, necessarily – see the problem in indulging every now and again. After all, where’s the enjoyment of life if you have to give up certain things (which, I might point out, aren’t vices in and of themselves) forever? You should be allowed to partake every now and again, as long as you’re willing to pay the price involved in doing so.

The thing is, what I had in mind was a little on the pricey side. Not literally, to be sure – although now that I think about it, it wasn’t all that long ago that I considered twenty dollars to be rather a lot to spend for a meal. Nowadays, that’s only a little steep, whereas ten bucks a plate is a virtual bargain; how times have changed. No, the price I’m referring to is in their caloric content. It’s one of the reasons why, when Daniel wants to get something at this one place that specializes in spicy chicken (there’s a layer of spice that they literally have you sign a waiver if you decide to purchase it; not that this interests him in the slightest), I don’t bother to get anything. The food is okay, but there’s nothing on their menu that’s under a thousand calories, and I don’t like any of their stuff well enough for it to make up most of what I eat in a given day.

But there are chicken places that I do miss visiting, and yesterday had me in the mood to stop by one on my way home from the ‘office.’ Daniel had already informed me that he’s grabbed a late lunch for himself, and he and Logan would be hanging out together for the evening, so I was “on [my] own,” as he apologetically put it. Not a problem; this place was one I favored, but he didn’t so much. I think it has to do with the fried mushrooms, in particular – I love them, while he’s not keen on the things in general. So I headed past the house and up to this place, one of the last of the chain, in order to get my meal.

And what a meal it was! Chicken parmesan with a side of spaghetti, along with a spicy corn succotash and those glorious fried mushrooms. Like I said, it came with a larger tab than usual – I didn’t have coupons for the place, like I usually did when we as a family would decide to head up there while in Ellen’s neighborhood – which probably should have suggested that I had purchased more than a single person’s worth of food, but it was what I wanted that evening, more or less, and it’s not as if I didn’t think it was worth it. Besides, I’d put in my time that morning, and while I hadn’t worked my way down to the two-ten line, I thought I’d gotten myself to an acceptable range, in terms of my weight.

Well, that may have been a bit of overconfidence on my part. This morning saw me opening my eyes to cold, bright sunlight, and hobbling into the bathroom (because once again, my left hip doesn’t seem to appreciate my workout regimen; as if I didn’t have enough lack of motivation to hit the gym) to see the scales nudge the two-fifteen line yet again. That’s the price of a meal like this, with two deep-fried dishes. A couple of hours of general activity knocked a half-pound off of this tally, but the point has been made.

I’m still debating whether to stop by and walk uphill for a bit on my way home from the ‘office,’ honey. It is Thursday, after all, and Mom will likely be feeding Daniel and I pretty well this evening, and I’m not sure I want to see those kinds of numbers – or worse – two days in a row. So with that being said, if you could help me out with my motivation – or maybe a decision, as Daniel’s talked about doing some shopping on this side of town, and that might be an option, if not a great substitute for a workout – that would be most appreciated.

In any event, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.