I've Divorced Chocolate

Remember I was telling you about my abnormal desire to head to the gym everyday? Well, clearly, I am living in some sort of parallel universe because another truth that I held to be incontrovertible has been completely blasted to hell.

Cheating, as in deep-fried, chocolate-covered, fat-laden and finger lickin' good, is no longer fun or remotely rewarding. Something must be wrong with me. I think I may be dying.

Is this a byproduct of middle age? Or is it all just a big psychological mind screw? I mean, now that I have given myself permission to eat and drink whatever I please once a week, I don't hanker.

For anything.

Even a little.

And truthfully, physically, I feel like a big sack of poo after I do indulge.

Saturday came this weekend and I convinced Dallas that a plate of nachos, some wings and a bottle of beer would make a satisfying lunch. I had thought about this meal most of the week as I struggled through set after set at the gym. Deep fried wings were going to be my reward and even though I sort of had a take it or leave it attitude, I figured my enthusiasm for the food would return as soon as we entered the parking lot of Buffalo Wild Wings. But it didn't.

We got inside and when the server came up to the table, I took over, ordering nachos, side salads and some wings. I was determined to cheat, in spite of my apathy. I will admit that the first mouthful of beer was absolute HEAVEN but the pleasantries stopped at that initial swallow as my feet swelled and my stomach bloated. It was the same experience with the food. I LOVED the taste of the nachos, oozing in all that fake cheese goodness but it didn't take long before the body responded in a WHAT-THE-HELL-ARE-YOU-DOING? kind of way.

Which of course, robbed the whole cheat day of any special quality.

It was explained to me that this is how normal, healthy, well-adjusted people relate to their food.

As fuel and nothing more.

Really?

No late night fudge cookie binges?
No raiding the Halloween stashes of children?
No dreaming of trans fatty Mcfries?
No selling a child for a bucket of original recipe chicken?

Really?

Where is the JOY in that, internet?

I suppose I should be grateful that a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup no longer screams at me like a siren from the impulse check out line. In the long run, I'm sure that my newly acquired obsession with work out gear will serve me better than my old fixation with the perfect Hollandaise sauce but somewhere along the line, in this murky process of getting a grip on my health, I'm leaving a piece of my essential self behind.

And by God, that piece had better weigh at least fifty pounds or I'm liable to take up smoking drinking yoga. Believe me when I tell you that the world would be a better place without a vision of my ass in one of those positions.







(photo of April Tatro, courtesy of contortionhomepage.com)