Ascetically Yours

I constantly tread the line between "sensible enjoyment of" and "complete obliteration by" my appetites in life. Whether it's chocolate, time on the Internet, or episode after episode of Lost, I find that it's nigh impossible for me to indulge in moderation. My relationship with all of these things is the definition of disfunctional: head over heels obsession, followed by remorse, uncomfortable consequences, and a full-on retreat.

It's no secret that I've been under a bit of stress lately.

---

Let's call a spade a spade, shall we? It's been quite a lot of stress, rather unfortunately coinciding with a holiday requiring that bags of miniature chocolates sit atop the fridge.

Why do I put them up there? It doesn't stop me from eating them. And yet, every year, I convince myself that storing a bag of Mounds bars atop a major kitchen appliance is all the deterrent I need. "Oh, I shouldn't put these in the cabinet with the cereal," I think. "Not with something I eat every day. HA! Then I'll see them. Perhaps...some place less accessible. Some place crazy and unexpected. A place like...the top of the fridge!"
Maybe I should put the unfolded laundry up there, too.

And so, bite after clandestine bite, on Halloween we only had three funsize chocolate bars to augment the bag of "Charms" mix in the candy bowl, which everyone knows is too disgusting to actually tempt anyone (and therefore a favorite of denialists like myself).

There is no denying, however, the nearly five pound weight gain these candy bars have prompted. I can't hide that on top of the fridge-- nor, it seems, in my jeans.

This is morbidly depressing. Depressing, and completely unacceptable, because I've already been dancing a maddening five pound tango around my pre-baby weight. Twice now I've landed just one short pound on the scant side of it, and the resulting triumphant headrush nearly made me pass out with glee. "153 pounds! This changes everything! Yesterday I was just a 154 pound suburban mother, but today...today, I am only five pounds off from my college weight! I am a slim, lithe ingenue who should be wisping around indie-rock shows! Hand me the eyeliner and a scarf to wear indoors!"

It's not all the fault of the candy bars. Word on the street is that eating an entire block of cheese in a week does not a Twiggy make. But now I can barely even look at real food, convinced that the perfectly sensible fish, rice, and veggie combo my husband has fixed is a gateway drug to just sitting on the kitchen floor and drinking Mazola.

And so, to get me through these feelings of panic, I've instituted one of my tried and true "Stop The Crazy!" trials. Past trials have included the Month of No Television (October 2005), the Month of No Alcohol (so many to name, but most recently September 2008), and the Week of No Internet Boards (early July this past summer). All in all, they give me something to strive for, clamp down a sense of order on my disordered psyche, and reassure me that there's something more than fear of the weather keeping me from running wild in the forest.

This time, it's some kind of hybrid "No Snacks Between Meals that aren't Vegetables, and a Whole Lot of Special K" trial, meant to reduce the frenzied shouting for sugar to a weak, occasional whimper. In a day or so, I'll feel less bloated. In a week or so, I'll be damn sick of Special K, but probably down a pound or two. And by Thanksgiving, I'll have enough control back that I'll be able to face the pie without putting my entire face into it.

Perhaps it's not how "normal people" lead their lives. Perhaps it's indicative of a slightly screwed up relationship with food (or blogs, or Netflix) to have to slam on the brakes like this every so often. Perhaps-- perhaps?-- I have control issues. But all I know is that these little trials help me make sense of my corner of the world, where a pseudo-addictive personality rides shotgun with a stern, monkish desire for order. Sometimes the monks's in the driver's seat, and sometimes it's Mama Cass, but generally they equal out in some sort of balance that keeps me out of the crazy house.