Once upon a diet time- way back a few years ago when I was having these same deja vu moments- one of my daughters was usually around to help out in my unending quest to fit in my clothes without busting zippers or popping buttons or twisting my cankles.
She would come in to borrow crock pots or measuring spoons or sleeping bags - and finally when they were unfashionably out of style or no longer working, she would return them. Hauling them in the front door to where my foyer resembled a section of Goodwill.
But along with those things, one morning she inadvertently left an unfamiliar plate behind on my kitchen table. It was covered with foil.
"I know you're on a diet", she said, fleeing out the door ,"but it won't hurt you."
After the dust settled, I peeked beneath the foil, curious what insignificant, harmless morsel of a treat may be waiting.
It was a "Cinnabon".
For her to think it wouldn't hurt me would be like asking Edward Scissorhands to scratch my back or Dracula to kiss my neck. It was asking for trouble. It was trouble. And I knew there wasn't room enough in my kitchen for the both of us.
I circled it a few times- attempting to scrutinize my enemy. Deciding to approach it slowly instead of making a hasty mistake.
There it was -"Cinnabon". Even the name sounded evil. No good could come of it, I was sure.
It lay there all coiled up in a perfect roll- ready to spring forth all it's cinnamon-y goodness to those less stronger than I. (To those dieters that hadn't started their journey yet.)
But I knew "Cinnabon" had to be alleviated. I knew it was here to harm me- to dig deep into my willpower and destroy me. I wasn't going to let that happen. Even if it meant extreme measures.
Even if it meant sending that beautiful mound of dessert to the landfill.
Cinnabon was watching me. too. Trying to look all sweet and innocent- attempting to disguise all the calories and fat that was coiled up in it's delicate face.
But, then I saw the fear. Cinnabon was beginning to sweat- it's gooey white frosting dripping in thick puddles around the plate- the cinnamon slipping from the rings of yeasty dough in obvious defeat.
I reacted quickly. I lassoed it up into a hangman's noose and pitched it into the trashcan. Then, for good measure I smothered it in warm coffee grounds and onion peels. I was certain then that it wasn't coming back. Cinnabon could never hurt me now.
Then I drifted off into the sunset with my Ab Roller. I had an extreme sense of satisfaction-
knowing I had made the kitchen a safer place. Knowing I was strong enough to fight- and win.
Fight the Fat.
Never let anyone tell you that it's not gonna hurt you.
Because it will.