My gym membership expired this month and the temperature has dipped below a comfortable temperature at which to run outside, so my friends Zack and Sarah have graciously offered up their apartment complex gym for me to use. There is a big flat screen television mounted to the wall above the cardio machines and even though I’ve created a sweet running playlist consisting of songs that make me feel sexy and, thus, motivated to keep running (ex. “Love Game” by Lady GaGa and “We R Who We R” by Ke$ha”) I’ve found myself choosing TV over music to accompany me on my runs. This is fine, except for one problem: the first time I entered the gym, the TV was turned on The Food Network and I couldn’t figure out how to change the channel. So ever since then I’ve been watching quality programs such as “Barefoot Contessa” and “Down Home with the Neelys” while I put miles on my legs.

"Down Home with the Neelys" on The Food Network

While I was knocking out a four-miler yesterday, the Neelys were making barbecue chicken with a grilled corn salad on the side and triple threat chocolate chip cookies for dessert. I couldn’t tell if I was panting more because of how fast I was running or because I wanted so badly to lick the bowl in which Gina Neely mixed the chocolately cookie dough.

A few minutes later, Zack and Sarah joined me in the gym.

“Are you watching food porn?” Sarah asked.

Whoa. Food porn.

I’ve never really thought about it that way before, but yes. That is exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been watching food porn for the last two weeks at the gym. I’ve been lusting after barbecue chicken, chocolate cookies, five-layer milk bars, deep-fried deviled eggs, and more, only to go home and try to make sweet food love to my second-rate kitchen.

I mean really. How can my poor kitchen compete with the unrealistic expectations sparked by food porn? My fridge is stocked with the makings of weight-conscious recipes and low-calorie  condiments. My pantry is bursting with nothing but cans of light Progresso soup and dollar pasta.

To make matters worse, I never find myself sucked into food porn while I’m lounging on the couch in the comfort of my own home. Oh no. I only watch The Food Network while I’m sweating my life away at the gym. I’m running on a treadmill like a starving hamster in a wheel, cursing my burning thighs and the number of Weight Watchers points I’ve consumed that day, wishing so desperately to be stuffing my face full of creamy manicotti and “death by chocolate” cake instead.

Last night Sarah showed me how to change the channel on the TV. I think I’ll be okay from here on out.