To Eat or Not To Eat: I Wish That Wasn't A Question

No one ever said fighting demons was easy, and man, they weren’t lying. It’s like having a devil and an angel on opposite shoulders, each shouting their conflicting desires back and forth and back and forth. And on and on and on and on. Not one of them stops until I make a choice, and even then, sometimes the defeated one still pierces my ears with guilt. The defeated one, I’m usually referring to the angel…often times I let me demons win. But not this time. I promised my wife I wouldn’t give in, and in return, she promised not to by a healthy-eating cookbook. I call that a deal.

There’ve been a couple times I’ve slipped up here and there, and with that, I’ve been left with guilt and a talking to in the closet so the kids don’t hear. But that ain’t happening this time. So way. Not because I’ve got superhuman willpower, but because this urgency strikes a little different than the rest. It’s not like deciding whether or not to jaywalk when every sign, even the ones shining down from heaven, tell me the obvious answer is no. It’s illegal. Duh. But this? This is a battle of pure morality. There’s not one warning sign, except maybe the fact that my wife told me I’ve got a love handle now…but other than that, I’m on my own. Naked and afraid in an arena with nothing to fight with but pure testosterone. And no matter what I do, these demons keep creeping. Ever slowing but surely. All I’ve got is very little wits about me and a handful of dad jokes.

To eat or not to eat. That is the question.

She made it clear to me to stay away from these. Her instructions were so clear there was no getting around it with a “you shoulda specified further” card. But that’s not the only problem. I’ve already eaten with my eyes, and the sins don’t stop there. I couldn’t help but grab the box and hold it like I just found the Holy Grail. And much worse, I even leaned over to whiff the sweet scent of these delicate pastries. It’s over for me. The demons are winning.

I gaze at the Twinkies like they’re exotic dancers shaking their little cream-filled bodies. She’d never approve. Oh, heck no, she wouldn’t. The minute she finds out, it’s over between us. I hate to say, and frankly embarrassed, that our relationship is bound by little snack cakes full of cream, but I can’t do nothing about it. She said if she sees me eat one more Twinkie, she’ll put me on a keto diet. I don’t know what’s worse: divorce or keto. Either way, it’s gonna end in the courtroom. All for a Twinkie who can’t even testify on the witness stand.

But what if she doesn’t see? Aha! I just foiled her plan. If I buy the box and eat if before I get home, she’ll never know. And I’ll wash it down with some Pepsi so that she won’t smell it on my breath. I set the box in the cart and push it down the aisle, but every step I take closer to the cash register haunts me. It’s not like it’s illegal. The Constitution doesn’t say nothing about why you gotta stop eating Twinkies if you gain a little weight. So why does it feel like a crime? And whoever said to put calorie counts? If I hadn’t known that eating a serving size would make me walk and hour and half to burn it off, then I would’ve eaten the whole box.

I backpedal. Stop. Shuffle forward. Stop. To eat or not to eat. I reach down into the cart and cradle the box like a baby. Maybe I’ll just have one…one and only one. And then I can throw the box away and act like nothing ever happened. Or I could give the rest to that guy on the street. But those don’t fill you up. It’s like eating a cloud. A sweet cloud. A cream-filled yellow cake cloud that surrounds my mind day and night. She said it’s an addiction, or boy, she was right. That’s why she told me not to get my daughter started. But I did. And I got yelled at for that one.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart races. The squeaky wheels of the cart roll down the isle as I cradle this beloved yet temptingly unhealthy curse. Just one. I can satisfy the hunger, she’ll never know. But I’ll know. And I’ll be in a little prison cell because I broke an invisible law. BUT IT’S A TWINKIE FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And yet a very important Twinkie. One that could change the course of history in my marriage, my diet, and in the numbers on the scale.

The cash register beeps and records the scanned item on the screen. One box of Twinkies. For the guy on the street corner…obviously. I pay and cradle the box, wrap my jacket around it to keep the cardboard from meeting the raindrops. And then my fingernails start to creep under the glued flaps on the side of the box. No. I can’t. I’m doing this for my wife’s rules. I sit down in the car, and with teeth clamped together, tear open the cardboard and free the Twinkies. Like a fluffy pillow, the cream-filled cake rests in my hand. And then I tear the wrapper and start down the road. The first bite is like heaven on my lips, but the image of my wife is like hell on earth. Oh, she’ll know. She’ll know with the pitiful look on my face. And if she doesn’t…my daughter will. She knows everything.

Sirens blare behind me. Red and blue lights flash. The cops. Oh, shoot, they caught me! All for a Twinkie! I thought this wasn’t really that big of deal. It’s just a Twinkie. And I’m just a guy with a little extra weight. But what’s so bad about that?! There’s more of me to love that way! But I submit and pull over to the curb while stuffing the Twinkies up my sleeves. If I’m gonna go to jail, it’d better be a worthwhile search for this gentleman. The cop strolls up to open window.

“Sir, you know how fast you were goin’ down that road?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Seventy. In a forty. You gotta slow down.”

I nod, mouth full of Twinkie. He seems to glance at the box on the floor, then at my size, then at my mouth again. The judgement radiates from him. But he hands me the ticket, and off he goes. Why does it gotta be like this? It’s just a Twinkie! JUST A STUPID LITTLE CREAM FILLED CAKE! For goodness’ sake get over it. And then I drive away.

But one doesn’t fill me. I’m crusin’ down the road, the wind in my hair, another Twinkie in my mouth. And then two. Then three. By time I pull into the driveway, I’m overcome with unbearable guilt…and gained weight. The whole box. Down the hatch. Just like that. I crumple the box and shove it in the dumpster at the bottom of the driveway. Hey! I didn’t break the real law, so what the heck! Just a small violation of another societal norm.