Addictions of the AM

I have found myself in a seeming struggle for betterment. One that I not winning. It’s the little things that are adding up and taking me over. It is more of a battle since they are small—each time, I am like, “Oh, it’s just this one” or “I deserve this today.” If they were big things, you know, breaking into Amazon headquarters and swiping all their books and DVDs, stealing a lottery winner’s identity, calling in sick to work everyday, then I am sure I would not take much effort to overcome. As it is, though, I am swiftly sinking into the sand trap of over-indulgence and am paying the consequences. My Id is out of control.
The first is (as always) food. Just thinking about Sonic gets me excited. If I am not struggling with money, then its food. (Well, I am struggling with money too, but that is too convicting, I am passing that one over for the time.) I miss the day when I used to look in the mirror and sigh with disappointment—still need to work on getting the biceps a few centimeters bigger, losing another three pounds, hating skin folds when I would bend over. Now, I simply look in the mirror and try to focus on controlling the impulse to vomit. Of course, nearing thirty, I am learning what all the original old people said was true. The older you get the harder it is. I can work out the same amount and not much changes. Of course the all-you-can-eat buffet that my life has become does not necessarily assist in my goal of being able to fit into my nice jean again—or at least not having my belly hang over the seatbelt when I am driving. Whoever coined the phrase ‘fat&happy’ was a skinny little bitch who had a Santa fetish.
The other battle is similar, but for different reasons, and manages to encompass food and money. I have never liked coffee. Hated it actually. Then, one day, I had an hour to spare until I picked up my boyfriend from work. He suggested that I read my “Eclipse” novel (You must read this series—fantastic) at the Caribou Coffee by his work. Sixty minutes later, I walked out with a monkey on my back. Have I told you that I detest monkeys? Some of the vilest creatures on God’s creation list. Except for those cute ones that are no bigger than your thumb—those are ok. I still hate ‘coffee.’ Caribou doesn’t serve coffee—like Starbucks. They serve sex in a warm paper container. Sure it has coffee in it, but the only hint that its there is hidden in the addiction that ensues. On the top of their turtle mocha, they put caramel and pieces of Snickers. That’s right folks, CANDY. Therefore the first several sips have bits of chewable Heaven, then, as you reach the bottom, the pieces that sank have melted. Your last several gulps are pure, undiluted chocolate. OMG!!! As the days got colder, it became my morning routine to drop off Chad around 6:40 and dash into Caribou. Now, I am distraught if I can not start my morning with liquid rapture, the car’s heater blowing full in my face, the cup warming my hands, and listening to my books on tape. Trust me, the kids don’t love their mornings either when their Mr. Witt has not be sufficiently satisfied. So, now I am spending roughly $30 a week, getting stained teeth, and ingesting two meal’s worth of calories before the rest of the world is even on their way to work.
I am a man, a very fallible man. I had been taught the dangers and sins of gay sex, tattoos, going to movie theaters, wearing jewelry, and reading books about magic. I’m addicted to all those (well, wearing rings actually comes and goes). You would think since I was never taught to avoid early morning coffee shops and cheeseburgers that I would not feel the need to over-indulge. My poor students and boyfriend. In a few years, all they will have to look at is a three hundred pound blob with yellowy-brown teeth with an assortment of monkey friends screeching while playing hide and seek in the rolls of fat.