Raw Appeal

For the past couple of weeks, I've been running like a madwoman. The winter, the dissertation, and medication-induced insatiable hunger have not been kind to my "girlish" figure. It's been both wonderful (hooray, springtime sunshine and runner's high!) and painful (boo, muscle cramps and spaghetti legs!).

So, last night BFF returned from her trip home to the WV (for what turned out to be a tragic Final Four game, not Easter). We celebrated by walking the three feet to Lord Hobo. I'd already eaten--I'd gone running that morning and had to quiet the stomach rumbles. I made myself a fine dinner of asparagus and prosciutto pasta, and was quite satisfied. But what should appear on the specials board, but steak tartare with raw yolk on top?

Thence came roaring from deep in the brain--EAT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My stomach even managed to make some empty gurgles, despite the full dinner.

So, I ordered it, along with a delicious bourbon cocktail. I determinedly ignored the pile of toast it was served with and practically face-planted into the pile of well-seasoned rawness like a starved animal.

This always happens when I'm a regular runner--the protein fiending is out of control. The euphoria of giving into the cravings is lovely, but I'm always slightly weirded out by how specific and overwhelming the somatic message is. Chemical machine-1, conscious will-0. (At least in the case of the steak--the 3 bourbon cocktails was all conscious will. So maybe the score is even.)

I'm not particularly wedded to the idea that the conscious mind is always in the driver's seat--I mean, a week or two I had a dream that one of my brothers handed me a Big Gulp, and the voice of my BF was heard faintly through the straw as I drank the soda. My subconscious takes some very strange turns, and I'm usually more amused than anything else. But that's all in my head. The uncanny thing is that my spaghetti legs seem to be telling my brain what to do... which is..... disconcerting.

I guess the moral is, "Suck it, Descartes"?