In one of my favourite scenes from Sex and the City, Miranda, unable to stop herself from eating a homemade chocolate cake, finally decides to throw the whole thing in the trash. But a moment later, her willpower fails her and she’s back in the kitchen picking discarded cake bits out of the garbage.
Realizing what she has done, Miranda calls Carrie and leaves her the following message:
“I know you’re probably busy having mind-blowing sex, but I feel you need to know that your good friend, Miranda Hobbes, has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You’ll probably need this information when you check me into the “Betty Crocker Clinic.”
But in the epic battle of Woman vs. Cake, it was Miranda who emerged the victor when she ultimately picked up a bottle of dish soap and dumped it all over the cake remains, rendering them unfit for human consumption.
Most of us ladies have had a “Miranda moment” at one point or another. Unable to control ourselves with “bad” foods, we do ridiculous things to sabotage ourselves, or the food, in order to put an end to the madness.
One of these such moments happened to me yesterday.
While I hasten to use the word “diet”, I guess that’s really the only term you would use to describe the satanic ritual I’ve been putting myself through lately. In an effort to look svelte and Facebook photo-ready for a few upcoming events, I’ve been watching what I eat and trying to cut out junk. You know, “carbs are the enemy” and all that noise. Anyway, yesterday, unable to face the prospect of one more apple, I took to the grocery store in search of healthy snack options. I perused the extensive collection of rice cakes and “100 calorie packs” before ultimately choosing an overpriced container of designer trail mix known as “Berry Blast”. For $9.99, there better be a God Damn blast. Maybe also some flecks of solid gold.
Guys, I kid you not, when I got back to my office and opened that thing I’m pretty sure rays of light and miniature angels flew out. This stuff was seriously addictive. Like a healthy crack.
But the problem with “healthy”snacks is that they, too,become unhealthy when you eat, say, 15 servings of them. When I realized this stuff was disappearing faster than everybody else in the theatre with Fred Willard, I shoved the container into my office drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
Putting it within arm’s reach was my first mistake. Within 30 seconds I was again shovelling fistfuls of pecans and dried cranberries into my face. Next, I tried throwing it on top of the bookshelf across the room, confident there was no way I could reach it without a chair or other boosting device. And that would just be embarrassing, right?
You overestimate my pride. Within 5 minutes I was climbing up on my chair and using a file folder as a reaching device to bring the trail mix within my grasp.
After a couple more handfuls (and my self-esteem at an all-time low) I decided that the Berry Blast and I needed a third-party intervention. So I picked up the now half-empty container and marched it down the hall to the office of a trusted colleague.
“I need you to do me a favour.” I said.
“Ok… what is it?” she replied, tepidly.
“I need you to hold this trail mix in trust for me until I regain enough self-control to have it in my presence.”
Stifling laughter, she
pryed it from my cold dead hands took the container from me. “Should we develop a safeword?” She asked, “So that I’ll know you’re serious when you come back?”
This seemed prudent.
We settled on “Idaho”. (“Boston”, “California” and “Nova Scotia” were also thrown out there, but all of those places made me hungry.) Then we drafted up a quick custodian agreement setting out the terms of the arrangement. (Just kidding. we’re not that bad).
Thinking that my trail mix troubles were behind me, I went back to work, free from the intrusive thoughts of macadamia nuts and pumpkin seeds.
But later that night, as I lie awake in bed, thoughts of my beloved Berry Blast returned to me. Images of cashews and blueberries danced in my head.
With sleep a distant possibility, I spent my waking hours mentally crafting each and every perfect handful.
The next morning, I marched into my colleague’s office and waved the proverbial white flag. “Idaho” I said, resolutely.
“What’s that??” She asked, jokingly.
“Idaho. IdahoIdahoIda- oh just give me the god damn thing already”.
Should’ve gone with the soap.