I’ll Take the Beige Chicken Sandwich That Exists Where Fun Used to Live

There is a very specific emotional rollercoaster that only activates when you’re trying to lose weight and someone casually says, “Let’s go out to dinner.” For most people, that sentence is an invitation. For me, it’s the opening scene of a psychological thriller.

I sit down, open the menu, and immediately hold it at arm’s length like it might detonate. Every item feels like a trap. Then I see the calorie counts, those tiny numbers printed like they’re trying to be polite about ruining my evening and my brain whispers, We could have stayed home. We had leftovers. We were safe there.

It’s like that steak scene in The Matrix where the guy says ignorance is bliss. I think about that scene a lot. Probably more than is healthy. That steak looked so good it should have had its own agent. And in those moments, staring at a menu, I completely understand the desire to not know anything. Just vibes. No numbers. No consequences. Just me and a burger living our truth.

Because I walk in excited. I’ve already decided, spiritually, that I’m getting the double cheeseburger. I open the menu and there it is: 1,500 calories. Just sitting there. Judging me. Suddenly I’m suspicious of everything. I’m side-eyeing the water like, Don’t lie to me. What are you hiding?

Then my brain launches into extreme mental gymnastics. I’m calculating workouts I haven’t even invented yet. I’m like, Okay, if I sprint uphill while carrying groceries… forever… maybe this balances out? By the time I finish negotiating with myself, I’ve burned at least 12 calories purely from stress.

Eventually I land where I usually do: the grilled chicken sandwich. No mayo. Please add enough vegetables to make it look like I’m trying to impress a nutritionist. Now, I want to be clear. This sandwich is… fine. It’s responsible. It has the personality of a beige wall. Across the table, someone else’s double cheeseburger arrives looking like it was handcrafted by artists. It glistens. It sizzles. Even the bun looks happier. My sandwich looks like it files its taxes early.

My rebellion comes in side form. Sometimes onion rings. Sometimes fries. If we’re at Culver's, I’ll get mashed potatoes, which feels like I found a loophole in the system. These are technically potatoes, I tell myself, as if I’ve outsmarted modern nutrition.

Early in my journey, restaurants didn’t just stress me out, they completely short-circuited me. I would avoid going out by pretending I just loved cooking at home. “Why eat out,” I’d say, “when I can spend two hours recreating a dish we slightly enjoy?” Meanwhile the real reason was that menus made my brain reboot like an old computer. Too many choices. Too many numbers. I couldn’t enjoy anything because all I could see was my progress evaporating in real time.

These days I’m a lot better at it. I’ve realized the real reason we go out isn’t the food. It’s sitting there with my wife and family, laughing about nothing, stealing fries off each other’s plates like civilized people. The meal is background noise. The company is the headline act.

And sometimes, after all the internal debates and spreadsheet calculations in my head, I decide to go for the big, indulgent thing. I hype it up. This fancy meal, at this incredible restaurant, is going to change my life. I take a bite… and it’s just okay. Not terrible. Just… fine. And now I’m sitting there thinking, I emotionally invested in you. I prepared my mindset. I allocated my precious “not caring” energy. And you’re mediocre?

That’s when I have to zoom out and laugh. Because maybe it’s date night. Maybe we’re celebrating something. The point was never to have the perfect meal. The point was to be there, to be present.

So yes, I’ll take my beige grilled chicken sandwich that just barely fills the space where fun used to live. Mashed potatoes instead of fries? Absolutely. That’s a win. I’m out with the people I love. I’m present. I’m not frozen in restaurant paralysis or calculating how many miles I’ll owe the dreaded treadmill journey to nowhere tomorrow morning.

It’s still a work in progress, I'm still a work in progress. I overthink. I wobble. But I’ve learned to laugh at the ridiculous negotiations happening in my head. Because if this journey has taught me anything, it’s that a sense of humor might be the most underrated health food there is and thankfully, it’s one thing on the menu with zero calories.