Coffee wasn't always my beverage of choice. In fact, until I met my friend Jenifer my freshman year of college, it wasn't even on my list of possible choices. My dad drank coffee (about 15 cups a day!), but I followed in my mum's fine tradition of black tea with cream and sugar. Or Coca-Cola. I hadn't even migrated to the Diet Coke which is my afternoon staple.
But I'm here to talk about Java, coffee, Joe, Starbuck's, my pick-me-up, can't start the day without it. My first real experience with coffee was in my friend Jenifer's room at college. I would crawl into her dorm room on weekend mornings (well, let's be honest, it was usually early afternoon - if you're wise, you STILL won't call me before 12:30 on a Saturday). She would already have her tiny 4-cup coffee pot running and the aroma would fill me up with warm fuzzies. I had always enjoyed the smell of coffee when my dad made it on Sunday mornings with breakfast, but hadn't understood the joy of it.
Sitting in Jen's room, with my hands tightly curled around one of her coffee cups, we'd talk and listen to music and laugh. My coffee preference was then, as it is now, heavy on the sugar and cream - more of a latte than just coffee. Her space, with its high ceiling and pretty drapes, was my sanctuary. After renewing myself for two mornings, I was ready to face my 8 am Monday classes each week. But I hadn't fully committed to the coffee thing - I didn't have it when I wasn't at her place. And I didn't order it at breakfast - I'd more often choose the hot chocolate (which was a particularly good choice at Papa Sam's Breakfast Nook at 5 am after a long night of partying at the Pi Kappa Phi house at Wofford College.)
When I moved back home, I started having coffee with Dad at those Sunday morning breakfasts. There was a certain camaraderie that followed - particularly because my sister Alicia has ALWAYS been a java addict. With the advent of my drinking coffee at home, I was invited to the hallowed halls of Waffle House for long, philosophical conversations about the universe accompanied by the rich smell of waffles cooking, the acrid fragrance of cigarette smoke in the air and the random accompaniment of the jukebox songs. The coffee at Waffle House was harsh unless it was knocked down a peg with liberal amounts of sugar from the old style sugar shaker on the formica booth tabletop. When I moved to Los Angeles and my sister joined me, the addiction spread even further.
Actors tended to bring their agents gifts, and as an assistant, I would be included in that - and there followed my addiction to the Starbucks Mocha Frappucino topped with whipped cream...what a gorgeous concoction! The icy coffee-coated shards would melt in my mouth while the richness of the whipped cream acted as a happy cloak for the roof of my mouth. And the energy surge I experienced was ridiculous. It got to the point that Neil, one of the agents I worked, declared that coffee gifts were off-limits. It only took the one drink and I'd be gleefully pinging around the on-camera offices as I prepared the packages for shipment.
And what a perfect way to date! A cup of coffee and some dessert - 30 minutes if it wasn't going well, or an hour and a half if we were enjoying ourselves. Coffee was meant to be consumed at the pace of conversation. I could also learn a lot about a guy by how much they did or didn't balk at my choices - the good guys didn't blink when I ordered the equivalent of a coffee milk shake and a slice of cake. The 'health nuts' would comment on sugar or carb intake and be almost instantly relegated to the 30 minute coffee category.
And then I got married. To a man who's idea of a delicous hot beverage is soup. He was in a BLIZZARD in high school in July with nothing but hot water or coffee as his options for warming up and chose hot water. Until the day he decided to get me an early Christmas gift. And even then it wasn't really the coffee itself but the coffee accoutrements that he was interested in. His goal was to give me something at home that allowed me to make the same kinds of delicious beverages that I was so addicted to at Starbucks. And although I nearly passed out at the extravagance of it, I now have a gorgeous DeLonghi Magnifica in my kitchen. For the uninitiated, it's the creme de la creme of espresso machines, with one button operation to grind the beans, and make espressos, lattes and cappucinos. The sleek steel and black silhouette stands guardian over the entrance to my kitchen.
And every morning's cup reminds me of college dorms and Waffle House, Papa Sam's and Starbucks, dates both good and bad, and the love of my dear sweet husband. Who knows what wonderful pieces of my life will be tied to the rich chocolate-colored brew I sip each morning before I dash out the door.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Low Maintenance - With Strawberries and Whipped Cream, Please
If you looked in the dictionary for the phrase 'low maintenance,' you would likely find a photo of me eating strawberry pancakes, crepes or French toast. Every once in a while, I'll protest to my darling husband that I am, in fact, 'high maintenance,' because I have made him feed our pet pigs. At which point, he'll fall onto the floor laughing and have trouble breathing for several minutes thereafter.
I am married because hubby realized that any girl who would consciously choose 'the Denny's next to my place because they have great food' as the end of a first date in Los Angeles had to be snatched up before someone else got wise to her charm. That's right. I'm in a city known for excess - oxygen bars, expensive chocolate, coffee pressed through cloth made by out of silk pulled from the bodies of tiny caterpillars bred for their ability to add fruit flavors to food - and all I want is a place that serves a good breakfast.
Such a breakfast, or in this case, breakfast-for-lunch, opportunity presented itself to me today as I strolled down Ventura Boulevard. I am attempting to eat healthier, which means that I turned down the offer of a muffin as my mid-morning snack and stuck with my black tea. My taste buds were not, however, in the mood for salad, and they weren't in the mood for any of the fast food burger type places, nor did I crave a gyro, Subway sandwich, or Chinese food. (Weight Watchers would have very strongly cautionary tales to tell about the block I work on.) But there was IHOP - the International House of Pancakes, which is, in a somewhat ironic twist as far as I'm concerned, staffed entirely by people native to either California or Baja California. The tall peaked blue roof beckoned like a neon sign for my tummy. "Eat here. Eat here!" The little chairs and tables set in the very small outdoor patio were vacant, but practically every table inside was full, and the parking lot didn't have a spot available.
Book in hand (always travel with a book - it makes waiting completely bearable), I asked for a table for one and got a full-sized booth all to myself. The IHOP special this month is strawberry craziness. Your choice of the usual breakfast foods in various combos - 2 eggs, bacon, sausage, and hashbrowns - comes with one of three things - stuffed strawberry French toast, strawberry pancakes or a strawberry crepe stuffed with sweet cream cheese filling and strawberries, drizzled with icing and strawberries. Guess which one I chose? You get to come with me for the next breakfast at lunch if you guess the crepe.
And that's really the size of it - I am always happy with a plate of eggs, bacon and some rich, yummy form of carbohydrate. Most times I'll opt for French toast, because people rarely screw that up. But a crepe filled to the delicious brim with soft, gooey cream cheese filling and whole strawberries? I'm the queen of Sheba.
So, yes, some women may need a closet full of shoes to feel fully alive, or just the right side table in their antique collection. Some men may fill their garage to bursting with expensive power tools or vintage automobiles. As for me, you'll find me at a local diner with family, friends, or a good book, contentedly enjoying a magnificent breakfast.
I am married because hubby realized that any girl who would consciously choose 'the Denny's next to my place because they have great food' as the end of a first date in Los Angeles had to be snatched up before someone else got wise to her charm. That's right. I'm in a city known for excess - oxygen bars, expensive chocolate, coffee pressed through cloth made by out of silk pulled from the bodies of tiny caterpillars bred for their ability to add fruit flavors to food - and all I want is a place that serves a good breakfast.
Such a breakfast, or in this case, breakfast-for-lunch, opportunity presented itself to me today as I strolled down Ventura Boulevard. I am attempting to eat healthier, which means that I turned down the offer of a muffin as my mid-morning snack and stuck with my black tea. My taste buds were not, however, in the mood for salad, and they weren't in the mood for any of the fast food burger type places, nor did I crave a gyro, Subway sandwich, or Chinese food. (Weight Watchers would have very strongly cautionary tales to tell about the block I work on.) But there was IHOP - the International House of Pancakes, which is, in a somewhat ironic twist as far as I'm concerned, staffed entirely by people native to either California or Baja California. The tall peaked blue roof beckoned like a neon sign for my tummy. "Eat here. Eat here!" The little chairs and tables set in the very small outdoor patio were vacant, but practically every table inside was full, and the parking lot didn't have a spot available.
Book in hand (always travel with a book - it makes waiting completely bearable), I asked for a table for one and got a full-sized booth all to myself. The IHOP special this month is strawberry craziness. Your choice of the usual breakfast foods in various combos - 2 eggs, bacon, sausage, and hashbrowns - comes with one of three things - stuffed strawberry French toast, strawberry pancakes or a strawberry crepe stuffed with sweet cream cheese filling and strawberries, drizzled with icing and strawberries. Guess which one I chose? You get to come with me for the next breakfast at lunch if you guess the crepe.
And that's really the size of it - I am always happy with a plate of eggs, bacon and some rich, yummy form of carbohydrate. Most times I'll opt for French toast, because people rarely screw that up. But a crepe filled to the delicious brim with soft, gooey cream cheese filling and whole strawberries? I'm the queen of Sheba.
So, yes, some women may need a closet full of shoes to feel fully alive, or just the right side table in their antique collection. Some men may fill their garage to bursting with expensive power tools or vintage automobiles. As for me, you'll find me at a local diner with family, friends, or a good book, contentedly enjoying a magnificent breakfast.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Rewriting History
In the last few months, a realization has gradually been permeating my brain. It started when Southern California began hitting the spring season and my head clouded up from the nascent buds of trees, flowers, and grasses sending their warning shots across my hay fever. And then it solidified after a rainstorm when my sinuses, oh so briefly, granted me a reprieve from the pressure that is my constant companion for 2 1/2 months each spring and fall.
What if my high school and college years weren't as awful as I thought they were? What if - and this is what is really starting to sink in - what if I had people who genuinely enjoyed my company all around me and I didn't even notice?
The thought makes me shudder, but I'm also finding that I have the opportunity to revisit my teenage years because of Facebook. It's a ubiquitous 'everyone is doing it' kind of a thing that until recently I had managed to avoid all together. But a job with a lot of free time and a general office policy that prevents me from reading People Magazine to find out what Mel Gibson is currently doing with his girlfriend has forced me into the realm of the internetally connected.
And I can reach out to people I knew when I lived in South Carolina - a beautiful state with a rich history and a pollen count that includes every plant I'm allergic to in vast, florid quantities, along with the moisture and humidity required to grow more mold than one hay-fever challenged teenager could ever overcome with over-the-counter antihistamines and little bottles of saline nose spray. My initial forays have been incredibly well-received. I shouldn't be horribly surprised; after all, I do have a friendly demeanor and a large social network in Southern California - and that can't be entirely an accident of geography.
For those of you who are blessed to have avoided hay-fever, and even for those of you who might get sneezing fits from cat and dog dander or the occasional really heavy pollen count day, allow me to explain my ailment. I have severe hay-fever which was finally diagnosed when I was about 9 years old. My primary symptom - the one which I believe has impacted my life more than any other single factor - is an aching, banging pressure running across the front of my face which is, at this point, only partially alleviated by antihistamines, decongestants and nasal sprays. When it truly flares up, the pressure converts to a pain much like a dagger being stagged directly through my temples. Being vertical causes my eyelids to droop and my head to want desperately to sag forward until it is flat against whatever tabletop or other surface is in front of me. I feel tired all the time - whether from the heavy levels of medication I'm taking or my body's reaction to the allergens, I'm not sure. And the world feels like it is pressing in around me and squeezing the air out of my environment.
Ironically, the symptoms have never been so alleviated as when I lived in the area of Los Angeles that is Koreatown. So much asphalt, so much concrete, so little room for my enemies to take root and grow! I may be the only person in the world for whom chemical-based smog is a blessed, holy relief. I could think and feel without the filter of medication and pain.
But when I was a teenager, I lived in a verdant forest of green, with a bedroom on the 'wet' side of the house, so that my north wall, even repainted several times, reeked of mildew. Walking into the room was like a two by four smashing directly across the bridge of my nose. And I SLEPT there every night for FOUR years. In fact, I did a little research, and Greenville-Spartanburg Metro Area and Augusta, GA Metro area are BOTH listed in the top 20 worst places to live for allergy sufferers for 2006. How I managed to make it through the schoolwork of high school is a miracle. That I didn't notice people flirting with me or even trying to make a connection with me in a friendship way is, in retrospect, completely unspurprising.
But I'm pissed off. This rambling shambles of a memory of high school and college wasn't necessary! I could have been more present, more aware, more awake to the possibilities around me. My depressed moments, when time seemed darkest to me and no one knew I was alive or even cared, were much more likely the times that the corn was pollinating and the goldenrod and ragweed were blooming!
I want those years back. I want to notice boys who have noticed me (which I didn't), to celebrate my prom outside the fog of Chlortrimeton 12-hour - which must have had some extra ingredient, because it doesn't work the way it used to for me, to feel the excitement of high school life instead of slogging through a morass of heavy-duty antihistamines and to hang out with friends and go to parties instead of sleeping every weekend away.
But in the meantime, I'm going to say hello to people I knew back then, and see if I can find out what REALLY happened when I was young. Who knows, I might have had a great time.
What if my high school and college years weren't as awful as I thought they were? What if - and this is what is really starting to sink in - what if I had people who genuinely enjoyed my company all around me and I didn't even notice?
The thought makes me shudder, but I'm also finding that I have the opportunity to revisit my teenage years because of Facebook. It's a ubiquitous 'everyone is doing it' kind of a thing that until recently I had managed to avoid all together. But a job with a lot of free time and a general office policy that prevents me from reading People Magazine to find out what Mel Gibson is currently doing with his girlfriend has forced me into the realm of the internetally connected.
And I can reach out to people I knew when I lived in South Carolina - a beautiful state with a rich history and a pollen count that includes every plant I'm allergic to in vast, florid quantities, along with the moisture and humidity required to grow more mold than one hay-fever challenged teenager could ever overcome with over-the-counter antihistamines and little bottles of saline nose spray. My initial forays have been incredibly well-received. I shouldn't be horribly surprised; after all, I do have a friendly demeanor and a large social network in Southern California - and that can't be entirely an accident of geography.
For those of you who are blessed to have avoided hay-fever, and even for those of you who might get sneezing fits from cat and dog dander or the occasional really heavy pollen count day, allow me to explain my ailment. I have severe hay-fever which was finally diagnosed when I was about 9 years old. My primary symptom - the one which I believe has impacted my life more than any other single factor - is an aching, banging pressure running across the front of my face which is, at this point, only partially alleviated by antihistamines, decongestants and nasal sprays. When it truly flares up, the pressure converts to a pain much like a dagger being stagged directly through my temples. Being vertical causes my eyelids to droop and my head to want desperately to sag forward until it is flat against whatever tabletop or other surface is in front of me. I feel tired all the time - whether from the heavy levels of medication I'm taking or my body's reaction to the allergens, I'm not sure. And the world feels like it is pressing in around me and squeezing the air out of my environment.
Ironically, the symptoms have never been so alleviated as when I lived in the area of Los Angeles that is Koreatown. So much asphalt, so much concrete, so little room for my enemies to take root and grow! I may be the only person in the world for whom chemical-based smog is a blessed, holy relief. I could think and feel without the filter of medication and pain.
But when I was a teenager, I lived in a verdant forest of green, with a bedroom on the 'wet' side of the house, so that my north wall, even repainted several times, reeked of mildew. Walking into the room was like a two by four smashing directly across the bridge of my nose. And I SLEPT there every night for FOUR years. In fact, I did a little research, and Greenville-Spartanburg Metro Area and Augusta, GA Metro area are BOTH listed in the top 20 worst places to live for allergy sufferers for 2006. How I managed to make it through the schoolwork of high school is a miracle. That I didn't notice people flirting with me or even trying to make a connection with me in a friendship way is, in retrospect, completely unspurprising.
But I'm pissed off. This rambling shambles of a memory of high school and college wasn't necessary! I could have been more present, more aware, more awake to the possibilities around me. My depressed moments, when time seemed darkest to me and no one knew I was alive or even cared, were much more likely the times that the corn was pollinating and the goldenrod and ragweed were blooming!
I want those years back. I want to notice boys who have noticed me (which I didn't), to celebrate my prom outside the fog of Chlortrimeton 12-hour - which must have had some extra ingredient, because it doesn't work the way it used to for me, to feel the excitement of high school life instead of slogging through a morass of heavy-duty antihistamines and to hang out with friends and go to parties instead of sleeping every weekend away.
But in the meantime, I'm going to say hello to people I knew back then, and see if I can find out what REALLY happened when I was young. Who knows, I might have had a great time.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Perfect Suit
This weekend, I braved Marshall's to purchase - duh duh duh DUUUUUUUH - a bathing suit. It's true - don't gasp - I had no choice. You see, last Thursday, I put on last year's suit - a rather fetching two piece in rich purple which drew the eye up and away from my imperfections, and the straps pulled out in that slow, languid way which indicated that the elastic has given up the ghost and moved on to greener pastures. My dear husband and I jumped into the pool and went swimming anyway, since it was just the two of us and he's kind enough to enjoy the bits of me which were not quite, well, contained, as I dove into the water. Since our friends are already clamoring for the first pool party of the summer and I REFUSE to become an exhibitionist, it was time for a new suit.
I had sneakily worked out in my mind that I would purchase a nice, sleek , architecturally clever one-piece which would hold in all the willful brownie-filled bits of me and create a glorious swimming silhouette resembling my early twenties body. In my imagination, the store I walked into would hold rack after rack of suits that would push and shape, nudge and coax, until my bust was perky and a quarter would bounce on my tush. The sad reality of the Marshall's I chose was that the selection of one pieces ran to the blousy top with swimskirt design - suits which embraced the most unattractive 1950s swimskirt features and paired them with patterns more commonly used to upholstery nursing home couches. And at 35, I'm just NOT there yet.
So, eyes squinted a little out of reluctance, I turned toward the two-piece suits. No...too geometric for my soft squishiness. No...I won't wear a suit that says Babycakes. No...I will not, no matter how many times anyone puts out a piece of clothing out of that shade, wear anything in the neon lime-green color which positively makes me look like a corpse stepping out of my grave. No...if the amount of fabric holding the suit together looks like it would barely make a Kleenex for Barbie, I'm definitely out. And then, there on a bottom rack, turned inside out so the pattern looked weird and knit-fabricky, was a teal flash.
I have become realistic in the last several weeks - I am not medium right now, I'm definitely large. I'm working on it - swimming will help a lot - but I held my breath as I pulled the suit away from the wall and looked for the size tag. Medium. And the one behind it? Medium. With two left, one said, small and finally, ta da!, large. For laughs, I took a medium, because I'm not THAT realistic yet - hope springs eternal - and the large. The bikini was a little flashy, even, with a jeweled heart in the same color gems as the fabric across the left breast and the right buttcheek. Given that my wardrobe generally falls into the black, burgundy and green - all solid colors, I felt positively outrageous even walking up to the attendant at the dressing rooms with these scraps of teal in my hands.
Trying on bathing suits should be an Olympic sport. There is always that moment where I try to contort my body to slide on an unfamiliar fabric with straps that I am not sure of and think, 'I'm going to get stuck.' I have not ever had to call the attendant to rescue me from the evil design work of some tiny, fashionista in New York laughing maniacally to herself as she imagines housewives trying on her works in the dressing rooms of California Marshall's stores, but I feel as if the possibility of that happening is imminent.
Let's dispense entirely with the medium, shall we? Suffice to say, I'm still not a medium, even after my whopping week and a half of trying to reduce my portion size at meals and to move my body farther than from the car to my office chair back to the car and onto the sofa. So I went to the large. Both pieces actually fit okay - I'm NOT trying an extra large, thank you very much. And it only took me a small amount of adjusting to get my breasts situated behind the vibrant teal top. The suit also conveniently offers the option of untying the top from the front for those brave women who chose to sun topless. Given my slavic heritage and my lifetime of having only two options from sun exposure - sunscreen spf 70 WHITE and sunburn after 25 minutes RED - I will not be using that option.
But I feel sexy in this suit. Its vibrant shade sets off my rich red hair and porcelain skin - even on my tummy - to great effect. And the jewels are fun - BodyGlove is scrawled across both the hearts on chest and bottom. It has a sassy little belt that ties in front and draws the eye up from my thighs. And when I showed it off to the girls at the office, all of whom are a decade younger than me, the youngest, most fashion-forward of them, said, "Hey, I'd buy something like that."
Mission accomplished. Now, if I can just figure out how to put on my swim cap.
I had sneakily worked out in my mind that I would purchase a nice, sleek , architecturally clever one-piece which would hold in all the willful brownie-filled bits of me and create a glorious swimming silhouette resembling my early twenties body. In my imagination, the store I walked into would hold rack after rack of suits that would push and shape, nudge and coax, until my bust was perky and a quarter would bounce on my tush. The sad reality of the Marshall's I chose was that the selection of one pieces ran to the blousy top with swimskirt design - suits which embraced the most unattractive 1950s swimskirt features and paired them with patterns more commonly used to upholstery nursing home couches. And at 35, I'm just NOT there yet.
So, eyes squinted a little out of reluctance, I turned toward the two-piece suits. No...too geometric for my soft squishiness. No...I won't wear a suit that says Babycakes. No...I will not, no matter how many times anyone puts out a piece of clothing out of that shade, wear anything in the neon lime-green color which positively makes me look like a corpse stepping out of my grave. No...if the amount of fabric holding the suit together looks like it would barely make a Kleenex for Barbie, I'm definitely out. And then, there on a bottom rack, turned inside out so the pattern looked weird and knit-fabricky, was a teal flash.
I have become realistic in the last several weeks - I am not medium right now, I'm definitely large. I'm working on it - swimming will help a lot - but I held my breath as I pulled the suit away from the wall and looked for the size tag. Medium. And the one behind it? Medium. With two left, one said, small and finally, ta da!, large. For laughs, I took a medium, because I'm not THAT realistic yet - hope springs eternal - and the large. The bikini was a little flashy, even, with a jeweled heart in the same color gems as the fabric across the left breast and the right buttcheek. Given that my wardrobe generally falls into the black, burgundy and green - all solid colors, I felt positively outrageous even walking up to the attendant at the dressing rooms with these scraps of teal in my hands.
Trying on bathing suits should be an Olympic sport. There is always that moment where I try to contort my body to slide on an unfamiliar fabric with straps that I am not sure of and think, 'I'm going to get stuck.' I have not ever had to call the attendant to rescue me from the evil design work of some tiny, fashionista in New York laughing maniacally to herself as she imagines housewives trying on her works in the dressing rooms of California Marshall's stores, but I feel as if the possibility of that happening is imminent.
Let's dispense entirely with the medium, shall we? Suffice to say, I'm still not a medium, even after my whopping week and a half of trying to reduce my portion size at meals and to move my body farther than from the car to my office chair back to the car and onto the sofa. So I went to the large. Both pieces actually fit okay - I'm NOT trying an extra large, thank you very much. And it only took me a small amount of adjusting to get my breasts situated behind the vibrant teal top. The suit also conveniently offers the option of untying the top from the front for those brave women who chose to sun topless. Given my slavic heritage and my lifetime of having only two options from sun exposure - sunscreen spf 70 WHITE and sunburn after 25 minutes RED - I will not be using that option.
But I feel sexy in this suit. Its vibrant shade sets off my rich red hair and porcelain skin - even on my tummy - to great effect. And the jewels are fun - BodyGlove is scrawled across both the hearts on chest and bottom. It has a sassy little belt that ties in front and draws the eye up from my thighs. And when I showed it off to the girls at the office, all of whom are a decade younger than me, the youngest, most fashion-forward of them, said, "Hey, I'd buy something like that."
Mission accomplished. Now, if I can just figure out how to put on my swim cap.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A Beginning: I Would Eat the Marshmellow
Today, I start this blog because of this article in the New Yorker. Before you dive in to the fascinating six page story from Jonah Lehrer, let me warn you, you may never look at marshmellows the same way again. In short summary, a group of psychologists believe that it is possible to actually pinpoint the self-control center of the brain, and their studies were inspired by a group of four-year-olds tested on how long they could resist eating a marshmellow. The scientists are in the nascent stages of looking at how the four-year-olds' responses in the 1960s test predict their lifetime achievements and ability to exhibit self-control as adults.
As I drove home from work, a place where I regularly succumb to the free offer (they're FREE, I HAVE TO) of a bagel with cream cheese, a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from the frou-frou cafe down the street, or honey-roasted peanuts, it occurred to me that I have always gone for instant gratification when it came to food. As a four-year-0ld, I would unequivocally have gone for the marshmellow. Every time. And I still exhibit a strong weakness for breakfast foods. As I begin my 36th year and attempt to learn self-control in a world where Cinnabon is 2 miles from my house and Coldstone Creamery is literally within walking distance, I need to write about my journey.
The funny thing is, I am not terrible at denying myself other things for practical reasons - new pants get put off until the next paycheck arrives, my hair is colored at home to save me the cost of the salon, and my paperwork is done before my relaxing moments. It is only when I'm confronted with rich yellow cake and raspberry filling that a second slice always seems like a really good idea. And I should know better - my father and grandfathers on both sides of my family, as well as two uncles and my grandmother all have Type II diabetes.
So is it, then, that I watched my dad relax at the end of a day and have not one or two Keebler's Fudge Stripe cookies, but a whole row from the crinkly plastic container that took forever to slide back into the wrapper, for as long as I can remember in my childhood? Or is it that my best moments with my mom were over a hot cup of Lipton tea (with sugar and milk, of course) and a piece of Entemann's Raspberry Danish?
The moments when I feel anxious or angry never last longer than a Snickers Bar or a beautiful pile of strawberry pancakes loaded with whipped cream. And I know that learning to find other outlets for those emotions, like writing, will take time.
For now, I'm going to celebrate finally putting fingers to keys by taking a walk with my potbellied pigs in our backyard. And leave the chocolate for another day.
As I drove home from work, a place where I regularly succumb to the free offer (they're FREE, I HAVE TO) of a bagel with cream cheese, a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from the frou-frou cafe down the street, or honey-roasted peanuts, it occurred to me that I have always gone for instant gratification when it came to food. As a four-year-0ld, I would unequivocally have gone for the marshmellow. Every time. And I still exhibit a strong weakness for breakfast foods. As I begin my 36th year and attempt to learn self-control in a world where Cinnabon is 2 miles from my house and Coldstone Creamery is literally within walking distance, I need to write about my journey.
The funny thing is, I am not terrible at denying myself other things for practical reasons - new pants get put off until the next paycheck arrives, my hair is colored at home to save me the cost of the salon, and my paperwork is done before my relaxing moments. It is only when I'm confronted with rich yellow cake and raspberry filling that a second slice always seems like a really good idea. And I should know better - my father and grandfathers on both sides of my family, as well as two uncles and my grandmother all have Type II diabetes.
So is it, then, that I watched my dad relax at the end of a day and have not one or two Keebler's Fudge Stripe cookies, but a whole row from the crinkly plastic container that took forever to slide back into the wrapper, for as long as I can remember in my childhood? Or is it that my best moments with my mom were over a hot cup of Lipton tea (with sugar and milk, of course) and a piece of Entemann's Raspberry Danish?
The moments when I feel anxious or angry never last longer than a Snickers Bar or a beautiful pile of strawberry pancakes loaded with whipped cream. And I know that learning to find other outlets for those emotions, like writing, will take time.
For now, I'm going to celebrate finally putting fingers to keys by taking a walk with my potbellied pigs in our backyard. And leave the chocolate for another day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
