Every once in awhile I get hooked on something. When that happens, I have to go cold turkey until I can get the monkey off my back. Some things, I can’t touch again. Like Diet Coke, for example. If I drink one, I’m not only off the wagon, I’m rolling around under the wheels. I know my limits. (Another symptom of my addiction: I write in cliches.)
But there’s one thing I struggle with over and over again. I try to live in the world with it. To find a happy place. (Mentally skinny people call it moderation. I hate moderation.) Clearly, I’m still struggling.
My nemesis? Peanut butter. Right now, I’m hooked on the organic kind fresh out of the grinder. Better than the sugar-filled Jif I tell myself. I go in the store for organic greens and it calls out, “Pick me! Pick me! Just eat a teaspoon of me. You know I’m good for you.”
Somehow, I believe it. Every time, I believe it. Like a dysfunctional relationship…I just keep going back.
I’m not proud of it.
I’m okay with all the other butters: almond, cashew, apple. But not the peanut. It’s an ongoing issue. And since I’ve had kids for the past 26 years, I’ve always got to have it close by. I mean, choosy mothers and all. I use to lock it in my car trunk, but then that just seemed too weird.
It’s time to face this now. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to treat it like I treat every other thing that grabs hold of me in an unhealthy way and smashes my face in the sand. I’m going to give it a roundhouse kick to the temple–and then let it go.
And maybe, just maybe, at some point we can live together in a healthier way in the world.