It’s no secret that I’ve fallen off the SCD wagon, big-time. It started with espresso, the gateway illegal, over two years ago. Espresso, and a spoonful of some shameless hussy of a dessert by Suzanne Goin, who should have a mug shot up in the P.O., as far as I’m concerned.
The bad news: once you transgress at all, you are no longer an SCD-er. Any transgression, no matter how small, puts you back at Day One just as surely as a sip of Bookers kicks you to the back of the bus at Alcoholics Anonymous. There’s no judging; it’s just that in the absence of better researched reasons for why it does and doesn’t work, SCD requires fanatical adherence to the canon of foods handed down from Dr. Haas and Elaine Gottschall. There are no sanctioned cheats. Not a one. Period.
And so.
Yesterday, at the colorist’s, I appalled even myself. Of course, I was only publicly, officially appalled after my good friend, L.A. Jan (we share everything) clocked me shoving two, count ‘em, two Butterfinger-type crap candy singles into my mouth Augustus Gloop-style. (I’m reasonably sure I at least took the wrappers off.) When she replaced her eyeballs in their respective sockets, she asked me what the f*ck was going on.
I mean, I’m not even especially fond of Butterfingers.
I’m still sorting it out, but I think the kernel of understanding lodged somewhere in the back molar of my consciousness looks something like “You are not the boss of me!” Or, as I put it to my pal, Heathervescent, between bites of generously buttered, 100% forbidden rye toast at breakfast this morning, “F*CK YOU, MOTHERF**KER! You are not the boss of me!”
So many years of sucking it up, coloring within the lines, being a good girl, stuffing it down. So much rage. So much fear. It’s going to find voice one way or t’other. And “F*ck you, motherf**ker! You are not the boss of me!” is pretty eloquent, if you ask me.
I have a sense of perspective, of course: I’m not perched above the quad in a clock tower with a rifle, or bankrupting the kids’ college fund at the river casino’s ATM, or even skulking behind the Rite Aid with a Marlboro Red. But I hate having something other than me owning me, so I need to get to the bottom of it.
Step One is noting it.
Step Two is noting it and not giving in.
To Butterfinger singles yesterday.
Or rye toast this morning.
Or Pizza Hut Thin ‘n’ Crispy Pepperoni Lovers’ pizza, delivered, lukewarm and fresh enough, to my door in something under an hour.
Well, one out of three ain’t bad…
xxx
c
Image by LynnInTokyo via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license
Hey Colleen,
F*ck you, motherf**ker! You are not the boss of me!†is really eloquent,
You’re doing great!
As an Exercise Scientist and Trainer I have spent much of the last twenty-five years helping people change their body. Smaller, bigger, lighter, leaner, more muscle, more flexibility, speed, power… Athletes, non-athletes, kids, mums, dads…..whatever they were after; that’s what I did my best to deliver.
If you want an amazing life and you’re all about creating positive change, then learn to deal with, if not embrace, discomfort.
Getting in shape is more of an internal process than it is an external one.
When we get the internal stuff right… the external change is merely a (positive) by-product.
Keep up the great writing!
Craig Harper
http://www.craigharper.com.au
“F*ck you, motherf**ker! You are not the boss of me!â€
A life philosophy if I’ve ever heard one.
Your last several posts have been wonderful and provocative and tempted comment (luckily for all concerned, I did that restraint bit. I just couldn’t think of a way to keep a comment under a page long. eek.)
This one, though, in light of those above mentioned superb posts, demands a question about integrity (not ‘honesty’ integrity, but integrity integrity). I don’t actually know what that question IS, but there’s one to be asked.
Maybe it’s: are we meant to be in a state of perfect, personal harmony or just, kind of, always aspiring to it?
Hm. That doesn’t LOOK like a very good question, does it?
I really just wanted to say that I can’t stop thinking about that soft-boiled egg and tiny toast stick. I want to eat that really bad. I’ve come back to your site like, five times to keep looking at it.
That egg is the motherf*ckin’ boss of me.
So if a single screw up is such a huge problem, how long does it take you to “get back on the wagon”, so speak? How long does it take to get the crap cleared out of your system again? (no pun intended
It really sucks that a little bit of sugar or potato starch in something you didn’t realize could set you back to square one.
Call me a mean person, but I’m glad you fell off the wagon for a day. I was beginning to worry that you were becoming too perfect.
Man, this so describes my life lately!