You can find me almost any day of the week with my ass parked in front of McDonald’s sucking back a large Diet Coke. I look forward to it like most people look forward to their morning coffee (or hot sex, whatever). I look forward to it every day. It makes me happy, it is refreshing, and it gives me the caffeine bump I need to jump start the day.
As soon as the bubbles hit the back of my throat, it’s pure bliss. There is a reason their soda tastes so damn good. The combination of the perfect temperature and lovely syrup-to-water ratio leaves many (whether they admit to or not) wanting more as soon as their cup is empty. I’m not alone, either. This is like a universal phenomenon because McD’s seems to have the lockdown on the world’s best Cokes. Even the McDonald’s straw is superior!
Hell, I just filled mine up three times today.
So there, I said it: I fucking love McDonald’s, and I don’t care who knows it. I know you aren’t supposed to admit to liking fast food. I realize it certainly isn’t trendy. It is more acceptable to talk about shopping at Whole Foods after yoga class (which I do also), but I am just being honest here. I don’t care about outing myself. My family and I eat healthy, complete meals most of the time, but those days that we don’t are pretty damn enjoyable.
I love how you purchase a soda (any size, but let’s be real, always large) for $1. I love how I can take my kids through the drive-thru on a busy evening, and they are more excited than when I make a hot meal that takes a very long time, and I have to fight them to eat every bite.
I love how you walk in there, and it smells like heaven. Because heaven smells like McDonald’s fries. And I have no shame whatsoever.
And I treasure my alone time sitting in my car reaching in that brown paper bag and eating french fries two (okay, five) at a time. It’s a $6 date with myself, by myself, and I like that shit.
View this post on Instagram
I've worn nothing but rips and sneakers all week. I've only washed my hair once. I think it's Thursday? My oldest is home sick, and while I was out running errands, he requested a #4. I love a good #4. We are going through a big change in our family. It is hard but strangely wonderful. I keep telling myself this is what change is supposed to feel like– difficult and different, and I am capable. I've whispered it to myself at night lying in bed, but it also comes in handy while putting together a piece of fucking Ikea furniture which arrives in boxes that can slip under your front door. These boxes are supposed to turn into a sofa. It certainly wasn't the packaging I had imagined. Sometimes life is like that; it gets handed to you in bits and pieces and doesn't always match the picture you had in your beautiful mind. But you put it together anyway. You might even find you get more out of the unexpected than you do out of the expected. Keep putting your boxes together, you are capable.
I once brought my bag of deep-fried treats in with me while I got a pedicure, and the receptionist was so turned on by the delicious aroma that she got in her car so damn fast and zipped to the closest McDonald’s and got a value meal for herself and came back to tell me how much she enjoyed it.
Then we slammed our Diet Coke cups together and said, “Cheers.” It was a beautiful moment.
I grew up in the ’80s before this fuckery known as mom shaming existed. My mother happily took us to McD’s a couple times monthly. It was a treat, and we appreciated it.
We would walk in there on hot summer days after the beach, enjoy the air conditioning and the smell of those salty, hot fries. My sisters and I would be over the moon about which happy meal toy we would go home with. One summer, they served their happy meals in pink or blue plastic buckets. We kept them for years, lugging them to the beach to make sand castles until they were faded and the McDonald’s logo had disappeared.
Before going to the tree farm each year, we would get up early and have breakfast at the golden arches enjoying their pancakes that were slathered with high-fructose corn syrup.
When I have PMS, you bet your ass I walk in there and get a large order with a chocolate shake. The sweet people behind the counter at our local McDonald’s know me so well they throw in two cherries with my chocolate cup of deliciousness. Now that’s customer service, folks.
Yes, I know what’s in their products. Yes, I know it’s not organic. But I cannot deny my love affair with the place. It does me right every single time, and I have yet to find any restaurant that can make a sack of fries and a large soda like they can.
And for some reason whenever I am coming off a bad cold, I want that damn Quarter Pounder in my belly. It takes me from feeling weak and drained to a woman who could rule the world. And I don’t even care to know why. I need the greasy fillers. I devour it, then lick my fingers and don’t feel an ounce a guilt.
You can judge me for being a fast-foodie and for letting my kids partake too, but I can honestly say I will not be giving up my McDonald’s addiction. Because Diet Coke. And French Fries. And shakes with two cherries.
Some days call for an organic mixed greens salad with a light vinaigrette, and some call for a huge helping of cheap, deep-fried yumminess. With a Diet Coke, of course.