Hello, my name is Emily and I am a carboholic.
The shakes start early in the morning after sleeping off a carb coma from the day before. Bagels beckon, preferably Everything or Onion. I crave salt and savory, not sweet. By lunchtime I am in need of a second hit – thick slices of sandwich bread. Sometimes I can get by with just a quick tortilla wrap or pita pocket. I also know all the places that offer my favorite chips on the side. Thick and crispy Salt and Vinegar. Sometimes Salt and Black pepper will do in an emergency. And of course, what southern raised cook would serve dinner without some sort of bread or pasta? I easily have three good-sized portions of carbs a day. Carbs comfort in times of stress. Carbs create opportunities to commune with friends. Of course, my favorite form of carbohydrates come in liquid. They go down smooth at the end of a long day. A glass of wine. A swig of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
As if the addiction wasn’t bad enough, it turns out I am allergic to carbohydrates. They make me break out all over in fat. I tried going cold-turkey once. DW and I went on the South Beach Diet but after a couple of days I was seeing spots and experiencing fainting spells. Handfuls of rubbery string-cheese just does not fill the void.
But last night I hit rock bottom. It was 10pm and I found myself in bed watching television. An ice-cold one in one hand, a bag of Salt and Vinegar in the other. Originally I had planned on watching an episode of Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, but the guilt and feelings of conviction were just too overwhelming. I settled for Parenthood. I had an old kitchen towel draped over my chest to catch crumbs, and since DW was sleeping the sound was way too low to hear over the crunching of chips; I had to quickly snarf a few between commercial breaks. Pathetic, I know. This morning my fingers are stiff sausages, bloated nubs.
I think I need an intervention, but it will have to wait until next week. This is PMS week, a.k.a. as Pardon My Shit week. Probably not the best time to initiate a detox – I doubt my children or DW would be prepared for the onslaught of irrational emotional outbursts over the placement of shoes in the mud-room. Perhaps I could start small – elliminate carbs from one meal of the day – skip the 2pm pantry call.
Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow.