I was recently caught eating Oreos. In the bathroom. Not while on the toilet. <sheesh>. And they weren't even Double Stuf, not even Double Stuf people.
It is safe to say that I have control issues when it comes to sweets, desserts and sugar in any form. I am fairly certain I can trace the anchor of my problem to my 14th birthday, circa 1990. In this year my mother became obsessed with eating natural. Nothing processed. Nothing good ... or maybe the good was sucked out during the baking, steaming, drying, boiling process. We shopped at a members-only food co-op in Sacramento, a strange market where everything was sold in bulk and was eerily healthy. Keep in mind in 1990 this era of shopping was the style of aging hippies, the Whole Foods generation where all the cool kids shop came later. I was a teenager and I wanted sugar. A lot of it.
For my birthday I was promised a chocolate cake. Rewind to the fact that my mother forget my 13th birthday, yes, forgot, so my 14th was a do-over. As dishes were washed and the cake was unveiled I was giddy. Chocolate, choc-o-late, chocolate! I sliced into the round, layered cake and sticky frosting slipped from the knife. I forked a significant piece and bit into it <pause> and stared wide-eyed. "What kind of cake is this?" I asked. My mother grinned and answered, "Carob. It's better than chocolate, and healthy. Don't you like it?". Crap. Trick question. Carob? I smiled weakly as I gulped the bite and casually looked toward the mound of cake waiting on my plate. Slowly, deliberately and with a focus I can only assume the greatest, most accomplished athletes in history can relate to, I finished every last drop of the cake. Let's just say, animals who eat bark would have hesitated to eat this cake.
After the Carob Incident of 1990 I knew my only recourse was to hide my sugar consumption. A shoe box in the closet held Hostess products (this idea was stolen from a scene in the movie Parenthood). M&M's were stashed between my mattress and bed frame. I began to hoard Andes mints like buried treasure and sticks of gum lined the inside of a note book on my book shelf. Forget about falling in love with boys, I only had eyes for Rocky Road candy bars. Candy became my dirty little secret. My dirty, tasty, gooey secret.
Fast forward to 2012. In the spring I decided to take a break from sugar. I finally began to admit that sugar may be a substantial contributing factor to my weight issues. So I ate one last bite of cookie at a potluck and vowed to make a change. I did so very well. So very well. For 3 months that is. Then it happened. At a restaurant I agreed to sample some cake. I started justifying desserts that were given to me as gifts. A taste of Evan's donut wouldn't be the end of the world. Plus I hadn't lost any weight, so maybe sugar wasn't the culprit after all. As I ventured down the cookie aisle at Safeway Oreos magically ended up in the basket. I told myself they were for Lewis because he loves them and then promptly hid them in the cupboard.
Checking to confirm that the kids were occupied I smuggled a sleeve of cookies into the bathroom. I leaned against the vanity and quietly opened the package. Eat them whole or apart? An Oreo question for the ages. As I took my first bite I heard a noise. I tossed a towel over the cookies as Evan walked in with an inquiry about LEGO's. I sent him on his way and it hit me like a ton of bricks. If you're hoarding cookies in the bathroom you probably have a problem. A tasty, sweet, cream-filled, yet serious problem, and you should probably just say No all together. Or, maybe just start enjoying carob.
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