I’ve been counting my calories, mainly because on certain days I eat enough to feed a small South American country. And my body is of the opinion that that’s too many.

Actually, no, it’s not my body that’s unhappy. My body wants to keep devouring and devouring – or at least the message it gives me. It’s my mind that realizes that my intake is closer to the elephantine side of the spectrum. Hence my effort to keep track and – here’s the hard part – limit the the amount I mindlessly wolf down.

The problem is that I’m experiencing moments that resemble hunger. Not real hunger, of course. But what my pampered lil’ self thinks of as hunger. Call it “hunger lite.” Still, to me it seems like hunger.

And my pseudo-hunger makes me think about food. Oh chocolate chip cookies, how do I love thee? (Pretty deeply, actually.) I heard someone mention a lunch date the other day and I thought, “lunch?” That sounds good. Is it time for lunch?