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The Food Inspector

When I was a child, my parents would get so aggravated at me during mealtimes.  My dad had nicknamed me “The Food Inspector.”

Because I was like the Health Department on steroids. I found something bothersome in almost every meal we ate that came from somewhere else–whether it was Thanksgiving at the grandmother’s, Pizza Hut, or any random restaurant.

By the time I was a teenager, I would joke that every restaurant meal I ordered came with a “complimentary hair.”

[I’m not kidding.]

After Augusta last weekend, we were at a steakhouse and I looked at my condiments—and there it was, the complimentary hair. 

BLECH.

The Expert is accustomed to the issues by now.  He hasn’t assumed the tone indignation as much as my father did, but I know it’s wearing on him.  He calmly sits while I have to wait to order a hairless meal… which of course, by the time that comes, I just am not even about eating.

For the longest time, I have assumed that every meal will be flawed in some way.

Because that’s been the way for as long as I can remember. I have come to expect it.

But I have also realized that maybe I am attracting the complimentary hair to my food with the law of attraction.  That I am focusing on it and it’s coming to be.

(Do I really have that kind of power? Ha. Of course not… right?)

In re-writing my script, I was thinking that I have to start rewriting the food inspector side of things.

Of course, not every meal has to be flawed, right?

That maybe if I stop looking for the faults…

 

Well, it’s just some food for thought.

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