Am I that selfish or is that sandwich that good?

 Seconds after hitting "Publish" on the post below, I headed for the goddamned gym. Where I spent the next 90+ minutes, working between an elliptical stepper, a stationary bike, the treadmill and the water fountain. I stretched a little bit but mostly kept watch on my tracker to hit the magic 10K steps.

Wouldn't you know it, the damn thing tapped out and stopped tracking around the 6473 mark.

But like that chubby Energizer Bunny, I kept going because I know exercise is my friend and because I'm still hoping to meet an endorphin one day.

Afterward, still not having met an endorphin, I decided I'd earned a chicken biscuit from the Keystone Diner. 

If you haven't had a chicken biscuit from the Keystone Diner, you haven't lived. I ordered it on a lark one day, hearkening back to a work trip a few years ago. The conference offered breakfast, and in Nashville, Tennessee, that means grits (yum) and chicken biscuits.

I remember wondering who in the hell would have chicken for breakfast, but I bit. Literally. And it was alright. I mean it was a biscuit, right. Normally, I'd pair that with egg and bacon, but when in Rome/Nashville, you do what the natives do, and it was surprisingly good.

So when presented the choice locally, I tried it. It arrived plain on plate. No sides, but with cheese.

Cheese on chicken on a biscuit? Gross, right. But the waitress was super nice and the coffee was great. How bad could it be?

Not bad. Brilliant. Amazing. Like, last meal on Death Row good.

Like a good wife, I call the Captain to see if he'd eaten. He'd gone off to basketball and I didn't know if he'd gone home after or was out on liquor store rounds. He was home and encouraged me to go get a reward, then called back to say he was game to go if he was invited.

Then, before I could get to him, he called to say the Deli closes at 2 p.m. It was 1:30 - and yes, a miracle had occurred and I'd gone past noon before eating.

"We can get it to go," I said, not willing to give up on my dream.

We get to 2344 E. 53rd St. and see it's pretty crowded. But on the door is a hand-lettered sign saying "Closed."

The Captain stops. I keep going. There were people in there! It wasn't yet 2 p.m. I was prepared to beg.

The owner sees us come in and greets us at the door, which is not unusual. It's a friendly place. He must have seen the desperation on my face because he insisted we sit. Jeff being Jeff has a conversation and tells him we can get our food to go.

He waves us to a seat but tells us to watch out for Debbie who had also seen us come in and asked him if he'd put up the sign.

Debbie comes to our table. She's the only waitress who's ever waited on me and she was as friendly as ever. I apologized but explained my addiction. God love her, she laughed and said it was OK. So I added a side and made sure the Captain had enough cash on him to help lessen Debbie's internal annoyance.

And man, if that chicken biscuit wasn't as good as I'd envisioned. Maybe better given I was probably close to a low-blood-sugar coma. Totally worth the gym time.

I like to think I'm a nice person, but clearly when I'm hungry, I'm not.