It’s only day nine of this ridiculous challenge, and it feels as if its been going on for an eternity. I’m probably only going to blah-di-blah a few more posts about particulars of this challenge. But let me say this, trying to flee from processed sugar is liking try to escape from Alcatraz: It takes much planning and the endurance of a woman fighting to taste sweet- sweet freedom. And even then – after you’ve become as annoying as someone on a diet who tags along to Timmes – you still have to deal with with sugar on wheels hunting you down.
I’m over the initial phase of habitual sugar cravings. But I feel like a darker, deeper pang is still beneath the quiet abyss. As noted by the ice-cream truck incident from earlier today:
Satan's Siren
I was waiting for outside and I shoved my bum into sun for some warming. (I.e. Just a note of clarification, I sat in the sun, I did not strip). Then I heard it, the faint rattling of a tinny tune which would have delighted my tween-aged self:
Tra-La-La-Laaaaa-La Tralalala Laaaaaaa! (rough translation: I’m coming to unleash your inner fat girl, muhahaaaa!)
I could see that devil-van as it crept over the hill in slow motion with its caloric booty. It’s as if the universe wanted me to fail, to crave and ingest the forbidden – For crying-out loud there was a truck with truckload of ice cream calling me. I felt persecuted. I had to go inside the house to continue my waiting.
Christi & Claire cook 