Can’t kick my love of bread

I don’t have many vices, just a few really.
Running shoes. Sweatshirts. Storage containers. To name a few. Not that many.
I don’t smoke. I only pretend to drink, having a glass of wine every now and then. I don’t steal cars and go on joy rides, or sell them off for parts.
I also don’t play knock-off-Ginger. Well, not anymore; not since the time I got caught when I was eight—my first and last adventure into being a juvenile delinquent.
I don’t think I quite grasped the notion of knock and then run. I forgot the run part, so I wasn’t bound for any life of crime.
I do play Kakuro puzzles with excessive regularity and some might claim that is a vice, taking a sizeable chunk from my productivity. But I prefer to think of it as brain stimulus, though that may be a stretch.
I struggle with cutting my hair despite being too old for a ponytail (but that may fall under the heading of obsession rather than a recognized vice).
My one big vice, certainly a habit that is detrimental to my well-being, one that I try and try to defeat without success and one I’m now prepared to publicly declare and risk judgment and shock, a notable flaw in my character (or one of the many notable flaws in my character), is my fairly severe addiction to bread.
There. I’ve said it (I thought I’d feel better than I do).
I’ve always had this addiction. Before I ran outside to play, I would slather honey on two pieces of white bread and jam the slices together, then stuff said makeshift sandwich into my pocket for later.
When I wanted to surprise my dad with a snack while he farmed and cleared land, it was a honey sandwich that I delivered to his work site.
I’ve been known to devour almost (if not all) an entire loaf of warm fresh bread smothered in cold butter in a single sitting. Oh, the shame.
I managed to eliminate bread from my diet for three full weeks this past winter. The first several days were tough, and I would have chewed up a sofa cushion if someone said it tasted like bread.
But I hung in there despite the low energy and rage and physical withdrawal.
Then something amazing happened. I quit having my daily headaches, my stomach settled down and was quiet as it should be, I slept better, and I had more energy. The eczema that comes and goes on my left hand disappeared entirely.
It was one of those “holy cow” experiences.
I only removed bread from my diet to see if my stomach would behave with better manners and, of course, it did. I was surprised by the other benefits.
But the kicker is, I can’t keep it up. I think that may mean I have little or no self-discipline. Tragic. I had no idea I was so weak.
It’s been a disappointing revelation. I no longer can hold myself in high regard, though I’m not sure I ever did.
What is it about bread that has me so addicted, so willing to risk life and limb for a slice, has turned me into a closet bread-eater, with my own stash in my office drawer. That may not be entirely true, but I’ve been known to move through the kitchen like a stealth weapon and butter a few slices and tiptoe to my office without alerting the authorities to my whereabouts.
That has a ring of addiction to it.
Tomorrow always seems the day that I will re-start my determined efforts to rid my diet of bread. I make big plans, research recipes, make lists. But, as we all know, tomorrow never comes.
Sigh. Maybe next week. I’ll write it on the calendar.
Wish me luck.
wendistewart@live.ca

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedinmail