Off the Wagon...And Back On Again.

To say that I “fell off the wagon” would be the wrong metaphor. If “falling off the wagon” is the term we generally equate with alcoholics or drug addicts messing up—even once—I would say my “falling off the wagon” was more like taking an airplane to 130,000 feet, realizing I have no parachute gear, and purposefully taking a big ‘ole leap anyhow. No, I didn’t just fall off the wagon…

Friday, February 26, 11:21 a.m.—Lunch.
The bell rings and my mouth salivates like Pavlov’s dogs. I quickly rush my students out the door, and I elbow my way through the herd of students heading to the cafeteria. I run to my car (the only running I’ll do that day), crank ‘er up, and begin driving without a plan. And by driving without a plan, I mean thinking about something completely opposite from driving…and zoning out so much that my car nearly has to drive itself and my body depends on muscle memory to steer the car in the right direction. Usually, my car guides itself right to Subway—since it’s the closest restaurant to the school and I only have 30 minutes. Today, mystically, it glides right through the intersection where I usually turn. “Oh snap!” I say out loud, not realizing I’ve passed the intersection until I’m too far for a U-Turn. I look left then right. Left—McDonald’s. Right—Wendy’s. Before I have time to decide, I realize my car has decided for me…I’m in the left turn lane. Oh. Okay. I go ahead and allow my car to maneuver right through the drive-thru. There’s a line. So I have time to think about my decision (or lack thereof). I even have time to snap a picture from my iPhone, thinking "people can make good choices at McDonald’s…maybe this will make a good blog". Well, I’m blogging—but it’s not good. I ordered a double cheeseburger and medium fries from the lady on the intercom. I pull around. It’s not a lady; it’s a 450-pound man (not exaggerating—I never inflate people’s weights). I watch his chub-laden arm struggle to reach out and hand me my change. I regret my decision to eat McDonald’s before I’ve even eaten it. But that doesn’t stop me…I rip, chew, and snarl my way through the entire contents of the bag before I’m even back at school.

Friday, February 26, 6:30 p.m. –Choosing a Dining Establishment
Derailed from today’s earlier debauch, I tell my husband I really don’t care where we go because I’ve already screwed up my diet. I follow up by suggesting the one place where I KNOW I can’t control myself: (Which my Legal Counsel has advised should remain nameless)—But this restaurant boasts the BEST RIBS in Jacksonville (it says so right on the menu). When we arrive, the waitress tells us to sit wherever—and we clump on over to the table in the back where we usually sit. I begin perusing the menu, knowing damn well I’m getting the ribs (but offering up the illusion that I might get a salad). I look up from the menu and see a man, sitting at the picnic table just behind my husband. I try to ignore the fact that he, like the McDonald’s server, is gargantuan. I try to converse with my husband, but I can’t ignore the fact that the 500-pound man’s underwear is peeking out from his britches, revealing a rotund three inches of ass crack. Out of curiosity, I peek around his incredible girth to see what he’s eating: Ribs, of course. I look at his family—his wife is big, but his son is tall and thin. As if I had room to judge, I wonder how someone could get that big. Just then, the perky waitress comes over, her curly ponytail swinging behind her. I look right into her eyes, ignore her advice that the salads are "decent," and I order the Ribs.

As I gnaw through my sweet, spicy, sauce-laden drug of choice, I get it. I get how someone creeps to a 500-pound weight. It’s the same way that I’ve gotten to be eighty pounds overweight. The same way that someone who’s a mere twenty pounds overweight has gotten to their weight. We know the right thing to do—the healthy thing to do—but we ignore it. That’s how we get overweight. Now, what we do when these mistakes happen is what dictates our true success or failure. As for me, I’m going to hobble back over to the healthy wagon, lick my wounds, and get right back on.