Indulging, craving, binging–sugar rush, yo let’s get super high!
I have a dehydrator. My idea of morning coffee is a trip to Mr. Kiwi’s to grab a kale+cucumber+green apple+lemon+ginger= green lemonade. A three dollars well spent. I waste hours at work researching the cheapest farm to buy unpasturized almonds online (FYI raw almonds are illegal to sell in store). I’m just into stuff like that.
But there I am, after a Tuesday date night dinner downing a whole bag of Tate’s chocolate chip cookies, a bag of kettle chips, followed by two apples and a banana just to slow the fuck down.
Maybe you think that’s not that bad. Well, it sets off a pattern that can last for weeks without proactive measures to quit. “Shut up skinny girl, you’re fine.”
Shit is not ok. The fact that I am already full, that my body is clearly not craving substance, and yet I am compelled to shove another cookie in my mouth? That is straight up junkie behavior.
Wtf. I’m a pretty happy person, I practice breathing regularly, I try to hit yoga. I don’t deny myself pizza and life is not perfect, but I try to maintain a decent lifestyle. Then why does this sweet stuff hook my brain? The fact is that humans were never supposed to ingest — basically shoot ourselves up with — this much refined sugar. It’s like crack. Aztec’s god-like cacao. My mom endearingly calls me “cookies.” It was the one of the words that most frequently came out of my mouth post-three years old. Cute? Maybe.
Heroine is better than sex. Gimme some GBH and I’ll show you the night of your life. But show me some vegan ice cream, organic granola crumble, pounds of fruit and raw chocolate, and I’ll leave you for good.
I walk into a bodega and like an addict I stare at the “zero trans fat,” “all natural,” “organic,” corn chips, the brooklyn salsa, the Pringles and Oreos. Whatever, it’s all one poison or another.
I’m not one to count calories or monitor my carb intake, but I feel disgusted when I look at my trash can overflowing with wrappers. This is not how we are supposed to be. And just like a recovering addict I wander aimlessly around the aisles, the man working the counter asks, “Qué quieres niña?”, “Oh, Nothing…antojada” and leave. This is at least a monthly occurrence.
Habits. Afternoon coffee caffeine fix. Mac and cheese. Dessert after dinner, coast it with a cig. Pleasure is not a sin, but holy hell it take some serious balls, the most personal decision ever, to break these habits.
It’s amazing how much we victimize and schlep off our choices on others, but really the strength to get over that hill is the loneliest, most powerful decision you make every day. Once on top, once you started good habits, a regular schedule, it’s easy! Oh boy, in my glory days when I blend in the morning and exercise daily, my ego grew ten fold! I felt I was invincible to disease and weight gain, and I glowed. Maybe it’s in the eye of the beholder, but I feel like sickness, trauma, as well as goodness and all the blessings of life, are at our own hand–not excluding our own mouth.
Last night 1/4th pint of chocolate raspberry ice cream; this morning plowing into a frozen dragon fruit. Like a rolled joint to an electronic cigarette, here we go again. Give your self some slack, take baby steps, take it day by day. However, I know I’m going to murder that mother last half pint of ice cream just waiting at home.