Stress Eating (Lead Me Not Into Temptation)

Drugs of Choice
Drugs of Choice

Devil Dogs, aptly named, are one of my old-time instruments of gluttony when I’m stressed out. I cannot resist their tempting allure. When the going gets tough, the tough eat Devil Dogs. I prefer them with a cup of tea. All my yapping about running and losing weight and being the best-in-my-age-group at 5Ks (because the rest of my age group were down at Acme Medical Equipment being fitted for their first walkers, chuckling that my name was on the list too), ALL OF IT GOES TO HELL while I stuff my face.

I remember many a rendezvous with a box of Devil Dogs way back in the late 1980s when my marriage was on its way to hell. Confusion, anger, frustration, loneliness, sadness… devil’s food cake. Devil’s food cake! And sugary cream filling! Oh, dear God! I had no restraint! The going was too tough! I broke the bread of Satan and drank of the cup of Tetley! With weeping and gnashing of teeth I groveled in the darkness in a barren land. Mmm… devil’s food cake… Dear Jesus, deliver me, these many years hence. For I do not wish to weigh 242 pounds again.

“But what are you stressing about?” the reader asks.

(Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they ask.)

Oh, I don’t know… money, work, death, fat, people texting while driving, fat people texting while driving, (see, commas are important), missing children, war with Russia, getting a haircut, the fact that I’m out of Devil Dogs now. Big things. Small things. Serious things. Petty things. But why do they make me shove food in my face? Why do I distract myself from the unpleasant by tickling my taste buds? Why do I grind my teeth in my sleep and wake up with my face hurting (I know, it’s killing you), and then seek comfort in the arms of fried, processed, and calorie-loaded foods, which I know damned well will only lead me down the greasy highway of ill health? WHY? WHY, GOD, WHY?

I know that when I eat better – and by better I mean healthier – I feel better. Less fat, less processed food, less sugar equals more energy, less inflammation, more good nutrients floating around in my veins. I know that when I exercise – and by exercise I mean run, in my case – I feel better. More running equals more muscle mass, less fat, more energy, and more endorphins skipping around in my brain. Not to mention the psychological benefit of a sense of achievement.

Lord, help me to remember all that goodness the next time stress starts whooping my butt. Give me the strength, Lord, to resist the temptation to stuff my face in times of weakness.

And Lord, just one question: How do you feel about ANGEL’S FOOD CAKE?

What Ladies?

Ladies? I don't see any ladies. Maybe they drowned in that pond.
Ladies? I don’t see any ladies. Maybe they drowned in that pond.

Throwback Thursday – In the Days of the Mullet

Circa 1993
Circa 1993

The question that comes to mind, and which has been asked by my observant fiancee, is why is that lanyard hanging off my sunglasses and not wrapped (tightly perhaps) around my neck?

I allowed myself to sink into a 20-year reverie (not a 20-year long reverie, but reminiscing back to 20-years past) and I remembered why I never wrapped that cord around my neck. The reason: I used to keep those glasses slung over the rearview mirror of my car, which was quite possibly a bronze-colored Volare station wagon at that period of my life, which eventually bit the dust and which a friend and I almost lost on I-78 while towing it behind his pickup truck up Jugtown Mountain. It was a pain in the neck to wear that lanyard around my neck, get it under all that glorious long hair, which some of you, the racists among you, are inordinately fond of referring to as a “mullet,” only to have to extract said lanyard from beneath that gorgeous mane to re-hang from the mirror, and then to properly re-style the curly locks again. Mystery solved.

On close inspection, one might notice what appears to be an even longer lanyard hanging off my shoulders. Before you question it, I will reveal that it is the pull strings from the maroon hoodie I traditionally wore beneath that ultra-cool Lee jean jacket. (Racists refer to it as “dungaree.”) I still have that jacket. It only fits half of me now.

By the way, I still have that guitar too. I’ve had it for 30 years now. Others have come and gone over the years. That one is still my one love, from the days of the mullet to the days of… well, yes, now I have a lot less hair. Sigh.