I ate at McDonalds last night.
Which might not sound particularly earth-shaking. But keep in mind that I can't even remember the last time I did such a thing. I am a vegetarian (eating meat only very occasionally). I make my own granola, full of whole grains, nuts, and seeds and laced with olive oil and honey. I eat power-packed salads for lunch and subsist on lentils and beans for my protein. In short, I am close to being a health-food fanatic.
McDonalds does not factor into that picture. At least not since I was a child, and McDonalds was a rare, celebrated treat. Our family was poor, and on our budget, that was about the only place we were eating out at anyway. Crispy, salty fries dipped in ketchup and a cheeseburger were the height of bliss for my brothers and I.
As I've grown up, McDonalds has become a relic of my childhood. It generally only has relevance as people discuss Morgan Spurlock's documentary or the latest attempt by the chain to rebrand themselves into a healthy lifestyle choice. The restaurant seems like a quaint relic of an era when people thought that eating things like red meat and saturated fats were good for you! Struggling to keep up in a generation which is flooded with health and nutrition information, it survives off the low-income and the ignorant.
Or so I think. However, all of this carefully considered nutritional superiority does nothing to affect the fact that around a certain time of the month (not every month, but regularly enough to notice), some kind of primal, raging hormonal urge kicks in and screams, "McDonalds!!" When this happens, I am powerless. The logical, thinking part of my brain which chooses my uber-healthful diet at normal times is taken hostage and locked away in a basement somewhere. Images and scents of hot, greasy fries laden with salt are flashed on perma-display to the screen of my mental theatre. At that point, no choice is available but surrender. At the mercy of this force, I am compelled to find the nearest fast-food outlet and devour the largest size of fries they have on offer.
So yesterday. All afternoon, I couldn't get fries off my mind. A thumbnail image of a basket of fries next to a news story kicked off a frenzy. "Yes! That is what you need!" my brain proclaimed. The urge crescendoed until five o' clock, at which time I promptly left work, contemplated my planned workout, and headed straight for the nearest McDonalds drive-through instead. Aiming for self-control, I ordered medium fries and devoured them like a six-year-old on steroids. "Ah," I thought. "That should do it." I drove home. But IT WAS NOT ENOUGH. I lasted only a few minutes before giving in, hopping in the car, driving to yet another McDonalds, and ordering a chicken sandwich and another medium fries. Those lasted only fractionally longer than the first batch. Feeling virtuous, I ordered a large orange juice along with it to at least partially counteract the negative effect of whatever poisons I'd just ingested.
And you know what? I felt fine. Expecting to be sick, I actually felt only slightly peculiar and groggy for a while last night. (I did wake up at 4 am and stay awake for quite some time, but that's probably attributable to other causes).
So, I guess my conclusion is that McDonalds should not go out of business. Just yet. At certain times, it's actually indispensable.