There’s never too much of a good thing

Why is it that when I have a good thing going, I only keep it going for so long and then fall off the good thing and into the peanut butter jar with a big, fat spoon?
I asked myself that question for the umpteenth time while I was digging out a gob of the “smooth and creamy” a couple of weeks ago. And because I do not “double-dip,” had another spoon healthy with a lump of honey.
I’m not suggesting these indulgences on my part are commonplace, but they do happen. Sometimes it’s just that insatiable hunger the afternoon of the day I forgot to eat breakfast and lunch.
Sometimes it’s the “stuff my face so I’ll feel better because I’m in a bad mood” syndrome.
And other days, it’s just plain rebelling against the natural order of things when I’m sick and tired of salad and chicken.
And when Janet Jackson shared on the Oprah Winfrey Show on Monday that she’d eaten a whole pizza by herself (as if it was more historic a news flash than when her breast fell out of her top on national TV), I chimed back at her about the “whole” foods I’ve eaten by myself, like it was water off a duck’s back.
When the mood strikes, I can keep up with the best of them, sister.
The only women I know of who don’t do the occasional box of Kraft Dinner or six scoops of vanilla ice cream are the French women I read about.
Apparently, they savour their food and pay attention to every bite so they know what their tasting—but then, they’d better. They only eat three bites of anything.
What’s the fun in that? Pass me the chips.
But to get back to my original conundrum. Two weeks ago, I was sitting at the kitchen table counting the 50 or so days until my 46th birthday and lamenting why my joints hurt so much, why I couldn’t sleep, and why, for the love of Pete, I couldn’t walk across the parking lot at work at better than the speed of a turtle.
I am not old and decrepit. I hadn’t gained weight but my body was killing me as I watched the dust collect on my gym bag and traded grapes for an Oreo cookie.
The kicker is that I know better. When I have a good thing going health-wise, I feel fantastic. Who doesn’t?
Yet I continue to be blindsided by the smell of something not included in the five food groups, test the limits, feel pretty good for awhile, and for the 100th time in my life continue the cycle until it hurts.
Thankfully, that’s one of the perks of being human. As long as I’m still breathing, I can start over again and get back to having a good thing going for myself, though after all these years of being on the warpath with myself I’m resigned to the fact that part of my meandering experience in this life is to enjoy eating.
And I’m re-reading “French Women Don’t Get Fat” because they can eat chocolate and drink red wine every day, though I’ll have to really try hard to only take three bites and three sips of each.
Besides, how do we know what they really do behind closed doors?
Three bites of a Caramel cookie, maybe. But don’t tell me the French woman doesn’t take a last spoonful of leftover rice pilaf before she puts it in the fridge.

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