The Food Coma
I work in media. I know food comas all too well.
For those not familar with media, in my field, sales reps from magazines, newspapers, television networks, out-of-home companies, and anyone else who thinks they have a snowball's chance in hell of getting on my client's media plan, kiss our asses by taking us out for lunch.
You don't go get a sandwich. Not even a Carnegie Deli sandwich (pictured above). You go for a full-blown lunch at a real restaurant. Namely, places I could never afford to dine at on my own. Included on that list, in recent weeks, are Nobu, Michael's, and BLT Steak.
I'm not bragging. In fact, I would gladly let you pretend to be me so I don't have to go on so many, as long as you bring me back a doggie bag. The 10 pounds that I've gained have come entirely from lunches and beer (because when reps don't take you out for lunch, they take you out for drinks. I blame my rep from Newsweek for my awful hangover on Friday).
So, this afternoon, I am in the midst of a food coma. I had the onion soup and red snapper at Bar Americain today, when the sales rep pressured me into dessert. I asked for "the lightest thing on the dessert menu." The waitress laughed. This is a Bobby Flay restaurant, after all. And so, even after two cups of post-lunch coffee, I am still flatlining. I am listless. I am useless. I will never get this brief done.
Perhaps this is where the stereotype of an overworked advertising agency employee comes from: we have to work until 8 or 9pm every night, because we don't do shit between 2 and 5pm.
Now, if you don't mind, I must go and nap through a meeting.