Fooded out

I am sick sick sick of food. Food is my master. It rules my day (and sometimes my night, too). I am supposed to eat what feels like a ginormous amount of food every day but am doing a poor job of it. This is partly because I am sick to death of the foods my body continues to crave. Yes, I am having an intimate and almost erotic relationship with cheese these days. But even that's starting to get old. Lunchboy jokes that we should just buy a few cows because other than peanut butter, the things I seem to want most are beef and various dairy products. Please tell me my stomach will expand its horizons because the idea of 5 more months of this? I am not sure how people stay on Atkins.

In the midst of our Olympics-watching this weekend, we caught a mini-bio of Michael Phelps that focused less on his bod than on his crazy training and diet requirements. Really, I think Bob Costas just has a huge crush on Michael Phelps. A few weeks ago, he did a pool-side interview with Phelps in which, after commenting on how Phelps swims like a fish (bet he's never heard THAT one before), he asked whether Phelps could also communicate telepathically with fish. Needless to say, that's when I lost all respect for Bob Costas.

Anyhoo. Mr. Phelps there spends 5 hours a day in the pool and says he is supposed to eat "between 8,000 and 10,000 calories a day." This was so hard to comprehend that I think it broke my head. If I had not just hoovered as much black bean beef into my mouth as possible moments earlier, this might have sent me to the kitchen, filled with renewed inspiration and determination. I do not think I could eat that much even if I was trying very consciously. Maybe if there was an In-N-Out Burger on the east coast. Mmmm, cheeseburgers. But still. Swimming schwimming. Michael Phelps is my new food hero.