A metaphor, because sometimes they’re fun:

You need to eat. You go to your fridge and find:

OPTION #1: Leftover three-bean salad your wife made a week ago. It smells awfully funky and the beans are covered in a viscous, smeary goop.

OPTION #2: Leftover chicken and rice your husband made a week ago. It also smells not-great, is coated in its own sloppy tarnish of smear, and there appears to be an extra fuzzy layer of white on that rice.

Fortunately, you don’t live in poverty. There’s plenty of food in the freezer and pantry. With a little effort you could whip up a fresh salad, some pasta, maybe an omelet. 

But these days a little effort feels like a lot of effort. And a lot of effort feels like not much fun. So instead of cooking something new you flip a coin, rinse the beans off and dig in. 

Later that evening when you’re on the toilet you remember the beans ruefully. But you can’t blame the beans. All the warning signs were there, and you still stuck them in your face.