Thinking of You, Fudge Ripple
Posted on November 7, 2007
Filed Under marriage, parenting, suburban joys, snark, holiday fun, sugar strike |
I am in the third day of a self-imposed hunger strike. No, not a writer’s strike. Sadly, I have no wages to contest. Nevertheless, I have made a vow, damn it, and it involves chocolate and ice cream and gummy worms. Yes, I ate way too much candy on Halloween and though I didn’t vomit like My Better Half did, I kind of wish I had. (But that’s the latent bulimic in me talking.) So instead of barfing, I have made a decision to avoid all dessert-like concoctions until Thanksgiving.
It’s more of a cleansing ritual than a diet. I’m not hoping to lose weight, though that would be a nice side effect. I’m really conducting this experiment to see if the absence of sugar and chocolate and all things delicious somehow alters my energy level. I’m strengthening my core by flexing a little self-control and will-power. And, so far, it has been nothing short of hell-a-cious. (Spellcheck says that ‘hellacious’ is not a word. I kind of believe it, now that I’m weak and compromised. So I’ve inserted the hyphens and used it anyway. Grammar and word choice are sure to suffer as this sugar strike continues.)
While each day starts out hopeful and bright, come 11 a.m. I am standing before the kitchen counter and deeply involved in an internal dispute about O and G’s Halloween candy. There is some pretty professional negotiating going on in my head as I try and convince my cerebellum that one tiny miniature Snickers bar does not constitute a total failure.
It’s amazing how persuasive I can be when arguing with myself and I am saved from my own cross examination by My Better Half who is passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom.
“What the hell are you doing over near that candy,” he asks. And I shrug and mutter something about weakness and defeat. Brave and stoic at his task, he places himself between me and the counter and shouts, “Step away from the candy. Just leave it alone.” And he swoops up the bag of Halloween loot, hiding it behind the coffee pot. Out of sight out of mind, right? He’s saved me once. But I know where those tiny little confections cower. I can almost hear their itty bitty plaintive calls, begging. “Eat me.”
Once I’ve made it through the obstacle course of temptation that is ‘day’, navigating the grocery store aisles, turning a blind eye to the confections languishing in the refrigerator case at Starbucks, there is the witching hour with which to contend. 8:30 p.m. finds me on the couch abusing my brain with stupid t.v. and obsessing about the freezer. We always have a variety of ice cream flavors with which to bribe the children. Chocolate chip for finishing homework. Moose Tracks for swallowing abhorrent vegetables like broccoli. These specimens of creamy delight beckon from their place among the forgotten items of the deep freeze. And I know, all too well, where the Fudge Ripple resides, right there next to the fish sticks, the wild blueberries, the lone chicken breast that has been there, in its frozen state of neglect, for over a year now.
Sixteen long and challenging days until I skip the turkey and the stuffing and just pile my plate high with slices of pumpkin chiffon and deep dish apple pie smothered in French Vanilla Bean ice cream. I’ll save room for a little dollop of mashed potatoes. Or not.
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