Sugar Rush

I am powerless in the face of a shortbread cookie. I look at it; it looks back at me. ‘Don’t eat that you fat bitch,’ I command myself. Then I start bargaining: ‘As a sign of your strong will and self-discipline, you must not eat this cookie. You can have a cookie later, just not this one.’ Soon the Scottish temptation is flying into my mouth and I am savouring my moment of defeat. Wait for it….yeah…an intense wave of pleasure washes over my body as I close my eyes and lean my head back, the same posture I use to enjoy an endorphin rush at the gym. Just yesterday I was on the rowing machine with a blissed out expression on my face, dreaming about a blockbuster-sized box of hot tamales, a jumbo bag of twizzlers, and a chai latte. Isn’t it obvious? I am addicted to sugar. 

When I feel the urge for sugar, get the fuck out of my way. I will toss the man-closet like Detective Logan, searching for the sweets hidden there, even that disgusting 90% dark chocolate that my partner likes. Bleck! I am not ashamed to say that I prefer those individually wrapped Easter bunnies from the Dollar store, filled with the powdery white substance that I need. In sheer desperation I will then scour the fridge, chugging real maple syrup directly from the bottle. I did this just last night while watching Elf, but it was my idea first you tall yellow-tight-wearing man whore. I have even been known to pour black strap molasses onto a waiting teaspoon, and gulp it like Dimetap. Fuck I love Dimetap. I just had a flashback to my childhood; I am lined up for a spoonful of that grapey goodness while dressed in a red snowsuit, about to head to the arena to watch my brother play hockey. Later I will pull a chair over to the forbidden cupboard, and stand on the kitchen counter while washing down handfuls of delicious Flinstone vitamins with a Dimetap chaser. That is likely when it began, in the 1970s, long before the days of childproof locks. 

I am living evidence that sugar is addictive, though some continue to doubt that such an affliction exists. I found this information online: There has been reference to the idea of sugar addiction in the popular literature for a number of years. In 1998, Kathleen DesMaisons outlined the concept of sugar addiction as a measurable physiological state caused by activation of mu opioid receptors in the brain. Her work extracted data from studies done by Blass showing that sugar acted as an analgesic drug whose effects could be blocked by a morphine blocker. Acting on years of anecdotal evidence from her work in the field of addiction, DesMaisons noted that dependence on sugar followed the same track outlined in the DSM IV for other drugs of abuse. For scientific purposes and to save those poor obese lab rats, I hereby volunteer to be stuffed full of sugar and/or morphine blockers and then videotaped. It won’t be pretty; it will be frenetic as I run through the maze. Will I get paid?

Yet as January approaches I realize that I must end my sugar addiction. Oh, you are thinking that DYT has arranged to have me kidnapped and held in a cabin—definitely not a cabane a sucre—to break me of my bad habit. I will curse her while shaking despite being wrapped in a blanket. I will periodically try to escape by throwing myself against the bolted wooden door. Finally, I will collapse in a puddle of tears, and she will hold me as I sob ‘thank you’ over and over. I will then be freed, albeit equipped with an electric neck collar that shocks me whenever I get too close to a Baskin Robbins. Then in a crazed relapsed state, I will storm the Licorice Hut, and die immersed in a pile of smoking blueberry swirl. This vision excites me. 

Actually, my diet coach will break me of my sugar addiction. In January, I will be the magical ’20 weeks out’ from my competition. Every 2.5 hours I will eat 125 grams of chicken with 65 grams of sweet potatoes. Those low-glycemic-index yams will get me through, but I have sworn off baking until after my competition. To prepare, I just had a huge baking binge, buying pounds of cassonade and butter to make 18 gift tins laden with the following: black pepper cookies, lemon squares, countess grey tea thins (with loose leaf tea I purchased at Fortnum and Mason in London), pecan squares, chocolate covered madjoul dates stuffed with roasted almonds and candied orange peel, and cinnamon balls. Last week I ate nothing but these cookies and squares for three solid days, kind of like Leaving Las Vegas, except that I am still alive. So far. I am in recovery mode, wearing a soiled white bathrobe and just living it day by day. Peace out.

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About feministfiguregirl

I am a 51-year-old professor named Lianne McTavish who receives as much satisfaction from working out at the gym as from publishing my academic research. About eight years ago, I decided to combine my two primary identities (scholar/gym rat) to create "Feminist Figure Girl," a fictional character who both analyzes and participates in bodybuilding. I competed in my first figure show in June of 2011, and then wrote a book inspired by the process, published by SUNY Press in February 2015. In this blog I will write about and consider my ongoing research on the body, while regularly making fun of myself. I recommend that you start reading my first post from August 2010 (available on the home page), instead of backwards from the most recent one, in order to get the full FFG effect.

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