I have a problem. A monkey on my back.
I sent the kids out on Halloween night to beg for sweets with the full knowledge that I would be eating ½ of the contents of their bags. They were tired and dispirited but I pressed them to knock on that one last door as that might hold the elusive full size candy bar. They were asked to go to the far, lonely house with the police tape and chalk outline because I sensed a King Size Snickers.
And now I can’t stop eating junk food.
Like good communists, we stripped their individual bags from them and dumped them into a family community bowl that sits on the kitchen counter. They no longer own their own candy. The house owns it and disperses it as it sees fit (i.e. they get what Mrs. Nitmos and I don’t want.)
While I have been busy engaging in Deadly Sins sloth and gluttony, a third sin has been carried into my brain on a wave of androgens and estrogens.* Lust.
I heart that candy bowl. I pick through it like a hobo at a Bennigan’s dumpster anxiously searching for a half eaten Monte Cristo. I get depressed when I’m at work and it’s a home all alone. If it had ears, I’d make it a mix tape loaded with Pat Benatar, Hall and Oates and some Air Supply.
What does any of this have to do with running? Well, of course, we know that nutrition is said to shape our bodies and fuel our runs. If true, then I’m four planks wide like a Kit Kat (maybe 2 planks for the mini-size, at least) and can run like a Baby Ruth. Despite my general chocolaty squareness (ChocolateNitmos Squarepants), I haven’t really noticed a problem with my speed. Or weight. Normally, my race day fighting weight is around 158 lbs. I stepped on the scale this Sunday expecting a 163 or so and found…159. I also managed a pretty normal pre-Halloween style run of:
Maybe all of this nutrition mumbo jumbo is just that. Mumbo jumbo. Lies spread by the vegetable and toothpaste lobbies. Maybe sugar and sweets can fuel my runs. Maybe it is good for my teeth.
I’ve kept the vegetables locked away in the refrigerator lately. The carrots and apples in the frig part (gen. pop). The frozen vegetables in the freezer (solitaire). I’m still eating bananas. Banana Laffy Taffy, that is. The kids don’t seem to like this flavor so I find the little yellow packages dotted through out the candy bowl. Silly kids. Don’t they know they need their potassium? Plus, you can extract little pockets of taffy from between your teeth at unexpected times for the rest of the day.
My dinners have consisted of a hunk of beef (unwrapped full size Snickers) and a side of mixed vegetables (if you squint real hard the Skittles do the trick). My after dinner dessert involves downing SweetTarts ‘til I get the sugar sweats and I mop my forehead.
The only down side seems to be that the sugar molecules are locking arms and putting up resistance in my colon. It’s a regular sit in protest going on. Lech “Milky Way” Walesa and Cesar “Starburst” Chavez are holding my lower g.i. hostage. While the candy bowl has been socialized, my colon appears to be unionized.
Despite the scale, I’ve noticed a few new aerodynamic ripples on my abdomen** for Mrs. Nitmos to enjoy. All of this talk of smooth lines and sleek, rounded curves and tapered lines to maximize wind flow, speed and efficiency. More mumbo jumbo? Is this just another lie from the aerodynamic lobby? After all, 17th century sailors seemed to do just fine with big, lumbering ships with puffed out sails. Maybe, instead of a six pack, I should strive for a ballooned out blimp belly?
Lust. It’s got me rethinking everything I thought I knew these days. Bless Mrs. Nitmos for tolerating my time of introspection. Bless her nougaty goodness and marshmallow crème heart.
Happy chocolate trails.
* We all have estrogen. Look it up.
** And though I can’t confirm it, I suspect there might be a couple new matching dimples on my ass as well.