One man's emotional journey of becoming choosey towards his breakfast in a chronically self aware state.

My relationship with eggs is a rocky and tumultuous on-again-off-again love affair. Some days I need my space and time to think, while other days I yearn in limbo for their familiar embrace.

Often I find myself longing for my past relationship with eggs. I think of all the good times we’ve had together: the quaint breakfasts accompanied by a cup of fruit and South American coffee, the egg brunch in New York City on that cold Sunday in February and those sausage egg and cheese sandwiches I always picked up on the way to the Colorado mountains.

Eggs were always there for me when I needed them most.

How I wish things were as they once were.

I’m the first to admit that I’m not the man I once was. My preferences changed and I have grown unfaithful to my once-favorite breakfast meal. In the past, I could eat them every day without hesitation — sometimes twice, fully enamored by their magnificence. Now, much to my dismay, I can only stomach them maybe once a week.

Each morning I open the fridge and see them there nestled snugly in their little carton home, I feel a sharp pain in my heart. Sadness sweeps over my being as I reach past them to grab various containers of something else. I know the eggs feel as I do — lost and confused in these uncertain times. They’re the last to deserve this sort of treatment. I just hope they know nothing they ever did was wrong. Because it’s alcohol and its demented comrade, the hangover, I blame.

The hangover. What an evil and lecherous beast. Bringing nausea and an aching head to what would be an otherwise enjoyable weekend morning.

Years ago, I would tolerate the wicked sickness and stave off its brunt with a plate of fried eggs and buttered wheat toast. But as I’ve grown older, longer in the tooth, I’ve become less immune to the vile and corrupt hangover. Now each morning after I lie in bed, bemoaning my questionable choices from the previous night — knowing the whole time that I’m going to suffer for hours to come.

Nothing consoles me or relieves me of this pain. Not even my old companion: the egg. What was once my ultimate relief for a night of overconsumption is now an insurmountable calcium pod of repugnance.

In my hungover state, I can’t stomach even one lone egg. The simple mention of it makes me wallow in anguish. No style of preparation can resolve that kind of disgust. Scrambled eggs were often my first choice. Now they’re little more than a non-option. Runny yolks at one point would cure all of life's problems, but now they just amplify the plight.

Eggs Benedict were a common style of choice at the hippest of spots, but I’ve become a breakfast Benedict Arnold and turned on the platter. I can’t even enjoy a California style omelet in my pathetic, wasteful weekend existence.

It’s me, not the eggs, that have changed — and for this I am overwhelmed by regret. I hope one day I will be able to rekindle the yolky flame, that I can overcome this juvenile standoff.

I know that the incredible, edible egg will always be there for me when I need them most. And for that act of commitment, I will always love them for loving me.