220…335…400 – their icy glare bores into me like an ex's new girlfriend and I am frozen in my tracks. "Hello ma'am, HELLO, can I get you something?" Two minutes prior, Mike could have gotten me a peppermint chocolate skim (obviously) mocha latte and sent me off into blissful anonymity. But alas, that was before an overzealous NY City Board of Health decided to hijack my treat by forcing restaurants to go public with the calorie count.
I was initially confronted with this disturbing development a couple of months ago, at a nameless baseball stadium whose inhabitants collapse a lot. My sister, my dad and I were all pumped up to get involved in our curly fries, big pretzels and other assorted culinary delights when to our dismay, each item was now accompanied by a strange number. We didn't know what to make of it, considered it might be the actual value of the item (baseball stadium joke) and that's when it dawned on us – it's the damn CALORIE COUNT. Blood drained from our faces as we realized the game we had been enjoying for so many years, that gave us the opportunity to indulge in a guilt-free annual outing, would never be quite the same again.
So now I am here, representing the millions of healthy New Yorkers and tourists (French and Italians couldn't care less though-they eat whatever they want) who no longer have a voice. The hard working, disciplined folks that go to the gym, walk when they can and watch what they eat for the most part, who no longer have a respite from their conscience. We are the careful ones; the ones that check how many calories are in our food and annoyingly discuss the fat content of items at Whole Foods. However, we are also the ones that know every now and then, a good juicy cheeseburger, a dollop of whipped cream or a pile of nachos will not kill us, they will only make us stronger. We are the nameless, faceless sufferers, who must now bear the burden of an untrusting government. A government that believes the citizenry of this great nation needs a teeny tiny government official in their pocket who says, "Stacey, do you really want to eat that? Isn't that an extra 20 minutes on the stepper?" We are now riddled with guilt at the counter and forced to take the high road. You know who we are, you see us leaving, dejected, plain tea or black coffee in our hands.
Please give us back our moments of pleasure. Our little escapes from this otherwise troubled world. Most of us know what we are doing and take responsibility for our actions. We may gain a little weight or have some stomach-aches along the way but we happily accept that. Please NY, give us back our treats, pretty please with whipped cream, caramel and sprinkles on top.
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