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.
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