Today someone typed in the search box: danger in eating mars bar choc.
How dangerous could it be? According to this Chowhound debate, you can it eat after the expiry date if you store it well. One time in the days of yore I was so gagging for a choccie fix that I ate an expired block of Home Brand cooking chocolate. I don’t think it would matter if you ate it fresh from the factory or seventeen years later, it still would have been vile.
What makes me sad is when you see a squashed Mars Bar lying on the ground, dropped by some careless fool. No matter how much of a chocolate snob I become, it still upsets me to see chocolate on a footpath, squashed by shoes or covered in vomit; never fulfilling its destiny. One time I saw some Maltesers, trampled and dissolving in the rain. It was just such a tragic waste.
Abandoned ice cream cones in the summertime, they make my heart sink too.
. . .
I’m in a world of pain today – a severe case of Fighter’s Back! I was punching like a madwoman at kickboxing on Monday night and three days later my back and shoulders are still aflame.
Like most things in life, you get what you put in with kickboxing. Remember that ill-advised Advanced class I took recently? My punches were pathetic and my kicks wouldn’t have harmed a flea – all due to terror and feelings of inferiority. I like to think I’m completely comfy in my skin these days, but I went all body-conscious when faced with those svelte assassins. Instead of trying to impress with my skills I held back – worried that they’d see my upper arms wobbling if I punched too hard, fretting that my t-shirt was exposing belly during burpees.
But back in my comfy Beginners group, I unleashed my inner Rocky. Not Rocky at his Apollo Creed-clobbering peak, mind you. More like Rocky before the montage with the carcasses: doughy but determined. I disappeared into this zone of intense concentration, it was just my fists and the glowing red target of the focus pads. Pow pow pow! I didn’t give a shit if anything was jiggling. Sometimes I forget that most basic law of the gym: everyone is there for themselves. Exercise is a deliciously selfish pursuit. So forget about the flab and let fly.