Fatniss vs. The Cupcakes (A Goliath and David story)

Back in college, I spent one wild night of studying and birch beer guzzling with friends at Roy Rogers restaurant. Several hours later, I didn't feel so well. Just after reaching my hallway, I passed out. Lots of tests later, I was diagnosed with a textbook case of hypoglycemia.

This sugar roller coaster ride is no fun, and it's really not good for me. Dessert can leave me in a near coma on the couch, and the constant flow of insulin to the brain can cause long-term problems, including Alzheimer's.

This is a difficult diagnosis for a sugar addict. I don't love every kind of sweet, but I am a sucker for cupcakes. The good news is that since I also can't eat gluten (I'm a mess, aren't I?), it's not as easy to just grab cupcakes or cookies. It takes an effort.

A few months ago, I swore off simple sugars for good. We cleaned out the pantry and freezer of any temptations, and I began my two-week detox. It worked for a while, but a busy day at work gave me just the excuse I needed to eat some chocolates that a co-worker generously brought back from a trip. The floodgates opened. I have never had crack, but I can't imagine that it feels better than a yellow cupcake with fudge icing going down my throat.

My family was supportive of my decision. For them, supportive meant not bringing anything I can eat into the house. Of course, they don't get woozy from a cookie, so why should THEY stop eating them?

Last night, my husband felt bad for me (or could it be that he was sick of my whining about how much I wanted the cookies and cupcakes they get to eat...?), so he baked some gluten-free cupcakes with chocolate frosting. I went to bed before they were done, dodging the bullet for at least eight hours. But this morning, they were there--their little, sweet souls begging me to use them as they were intended. So I did. I ate one. Oops, did I say one? I meant two. Or was it three?

That's where I stopped myself. I had to leave for a meeting, and I knew I would be a coma-ey mess if I didn't cease my scarfing. I called my daughter from the car and asked her to please take all of the other cupcakes to her friends before I got back home. She promised she would. Whew!

Did I mention that she's a teenager? Yeah, those cupcakes were still there when I got back this afternoon. They were totally winning. I was no match for them, even after I finished a healthy, veggie laden meal. As I sipped my sugar-free lemonade, I imagined the perfect pairing--a teensy, weensy, harmless cupcake. Into the battle arena Fatniss went. The fight lasted long enough to remove the cupcake wrapper. Four.

These battles, while frustrating, are the true test of a weight-loss warrior. I would not, could not, let them defeat me. I ventured back out to the kitchen. I kicked the garbage can open with my left leg, while grabbing the cupcake tray swiftly with my right arm. Bang! In to the trash! I watched the lid close with a mixture of sadness and relief. At least that particular battle is over. The most important part is that I know I am certain to live to fight another day.

Never too young; never too old

Over the past couple of months, I've written several blogs--in my head. A tough work schedule, family priorities, and a new puppy have all gotten in the way of posting them. I promise, they were brilliant.

Today, unexpected news awakened me from my blog slumber.

Back in January, when my daughter and I scouted the new LA Fitness across the street to see if it would be a good fit for us, we were cheerily greeted at the front desk by Art, the gym's beautiful, well-built manager. I knew immediately he was meant to be the cheese to this overweight mouse.

Didn't matter. I totally took the bait. He was warm and funny with just one flaw; he was a massive Ravens fan. Seriously? I was about to dismiss him for poor judgement, but Art's charm bridged the gap between a stolen Cleveland Browns supporter and a Steel Curtain devotee.

I'm sure we were two of a dozen new members he lured in that day, but looking back, I realize that his positive, supportive attitude set me on a whole new life path. In the past six months, I've dropped three sizes, run my first 5K and signed up for another, and become a Zumba disciple. I weigh less than I have in at least 15 years, and I feel confident and strong.

While I have kept up my workout routine, even during the busiest weeks, my attitude has taken a steady decline. I have to give myself a 15 minute pep talk and drag my butt to the car for class or training. Today, for the first time in a while, I looked forward to a great Zumba workout, and I even arrived early for the session. I walked up to the desk and handed them my key card. While I waited, I noticed a flier advertising a wake. Assuming it was for a fellow member, I checked the name.

Art Gamble.

What? I looked again, assuming that there must be another person with that name associated with the gym. I quickly checked the obituary on my phone, and there it was. That beautiful face. That warm, wonderful soul. Arthur Gamble, IV, was 29 years old. He unexpectedly passed away on Father's Day, leaving behind a loving family, including a son.

I continued, stunned, into the dance studio. Frank, our instructor, began the session with a simple message--live every day to its fullest. I spent the hour dancing as fiercely as I ever have. I felt so sad for Art's family and so grateful that he helped me on the path to a long, healthy life of my own.

This journey we're on comes with no guarantees. You are never too young to start embracing every day as if it's your last. And you are never too old to change your life for the better.

And no matter what your age, never stop dancing.