Why Can't We All Have Pizza?

This post isn't really about pizza.  Not really.

Today, one of my friends ate pizza for lunch.  No big deal right?  She checked in at Mod Pizza on Facebook.  Later, when I was driving to Whole Foods (or Whole Paycheck as it's sometimes referred to) to eat salad with super-safe ground turkey and calorie-free dressing on it for dinner with my dad, I passed a pizza place and remembered my friend eating pizza for lunch.  Two immediate thoughts ran through my mind.
1) Pizza sounds WAY better than this salad (although I do like salad, for real) and
2) Why can't we all have pizza for lunch sometimes?

My friend who ate the pizza... she's not fat!  She looks FINE!  She's slender, even!  Beyond that, she is (apparently) happy.  I mean, no one's life is perfect, and I know she's got troubles like the rest of us.  But she's basically happy.  And the fact that she ate pizza for lunch on February 17, 2014?  Not even a thing.  I would be willing to bet that she didn't think much about it after she ate the last bite and walked out the door.  She was probably on to thinking about what time she had to pick up her kid from wherever, or about a text message she needed to send to someone, or about something funny that happened earlier, or about how to save the world!  

The pizza happened.  She lived.  

So why do I feel like I would drop dead on the spot if I ate pizza?  Actually.. I think I would want to drop dead on the spot if I ate pizza.  The guilt would be so heavy on my shoulders that I might actually leave footprints in the asphalt.  I do, for all I know, leave little guilt footprints all over the place, everywhere I go.

The pizza happened.  She didn't gain weight instantly.

So why do I feel like I would instantaneously turn into a whale on legs?  I know that sounds dramatic but sometimes I perceive I can actually FEEL the fat clinging to my body.  I can feel the salt holding water in my skin.  I can feel myself expanding like those damn balloons I'm so phobic of.  My skin stretches and I swear it makes that rubbery, latex-y creak that balloons make when you touch them (although why anyone would ever voluntarily touch one is beyond me.)

There is no doubt in my rational mind that if I were to eat a piece of pizza tomorrow that I would look exactly the same afterward as I did before, except for the giant anvil of guilt on my shoulders.

What else am I walking around carrying guilt for that I have no business feeling guilty for in the first place?  How much shit are we ALL carrying around that we need to drop, right here, right now?  It's a scary thought, right?  Because if we didn't have all that shit weighing us down we might float away, and that's almost scarier than staying here.  Almost.  But not quite.

So I am going to write on this blog that I am going to eat pizza.  I don't know when.  I can't even remember when the last time was!  But I'm going to do it.  And I'm going to check in on facebook at some pizza place.  Just you watch!  I know better than to put a deadline on it because things can change in a second.  But... I will do it.

Hawaiian pizza, I think, except I only like the pineapples.

(What is your favorite kind of pizza?)