My Step-Mom used to say I had a second stomach for dessert; beyond the offense at being compared to a cow I couldn’t help but agree with her. Eating copious amounts ofsugary substances was my childhood in a nutshell. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it. I never agreed with counting calories or weighing myself daily. It didn’t make any sense to abstain, I enjoyed it so much, and it was within the rules. Chocolate is one of the four major food groups, right? At least my guilty pleasure wasn’t something black-listed, like drugs or something. I rationalized that although it wasn’t good, it wasn’t the worst thing I could be doing.
Consequences seemed non-existent until I ran into some trouble with a lollipop from Six Flags. It was late and chagrinned by how much my cowardliness had shown in my demeanor whenever I was faced with even the smallest of rollercoasters, when I was pushed to finish what I’d started, I didn’t back down. With at least 85% of the goliath already ingested, it seemed like more couldn’t make much difference.
Boy, was I mistaken. It made a huge difference. I was thoroughly sickened. I couldn’t even get on the plane the next morning to fly back home to my mom. She called to check on me, and I tried to cover it up. Ashamed that I had made the stupidest decision, sacrificed so much for somethinginsignificant-- a fleetingly temporary reward-- I subconsciously swore off sweets. That does mean I didn’t slip up for theoccasional cookie and who could ever resist ice cream, but never again did I underestimate the side effects of my decisions. I knew when I’d had enough and how much was too much, and when to stop.
spring 2014
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