Telling yourself the salad bar counts as “health.”
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We've all been there, standing in line, eyeing the pizza, but then that little voice, probably fueled by a recent all-nighter, whispers, 'Today, you choose wellness.' So you pivot, full of good intentions, towards the salad bar. You start strong, a handful of spinach, maybe some cucumber. Then the true genius of the Ivy League student mind kicks in: optimization. Because what’s a salad without a generous sprinkle of crispy bacon bits? Or those glorious, oversized croutons that are practically mini bread rolls? And let’s not even get started on the cheese – all of it. A mountain of shredded cheddar, a dollop of feta, perhaps some mozzarella for good measure.
Then comes the dressing. Not a drizzle, never a drizzle. It’s a pour. A healthy, hearty pour of ranch, blue cheese, or maybe a creamy Caesar, because a dry salad is a sad salad, and who has time for sadness when there’s a midterm tomorrow? You mix it all up, the vibrant greens now barely visible beneath a delicious, calorific blanket. You carry your bowl back to your table, a subtle sense of accomplishment washing over you. 'See?' you tell yourself, taking a bite. 'Healthy.' It’s the ultimate campus self-deception, the ingenious way we convinced ourselves we were nourishing our bodies while simultaneously fueling our brains with glorious, processed deliciousness. It was a lifeline, a comfort, and proof that even our best intentions could be wonderfully, comically derailed by the siren song of dining hall indulgence. Those were the days.
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