Addict

Here's the thing. When you had a father and mother that both had insatiable cravings for sweets, particularly ice cream, it's not a stretch that my main staple growing up was ice cream. To say I loved it is actually an understatement. If I could've freebased the stuff directly into my veins, I'd be the youngest addict humankind had ever seen. I didn't care to rehab from the stuff; on the contrary, my thing was to sample all of the flavors that were made just to see which I liked best. I was an all-out addict my friend and I wasn't choosy. As long as it was creamy, cold and delish, I'd eat it.

I gave Hell growing up when it came to food. I was a non-interested eater. If mother put a plate of nutritious food on the table, I'd be sitting there until she forced fed me because I refused to eat. I wanted sweets. Blame my father. His sweet tooth knew no bounds and whenever I was left in his care or went out with him we'd have a sweetfest that by the time I got home I was green and nauseous from so much sugar. Yes, Daddy was my dealer.

Going food shopping with Dad was great as a kid. Nothing in the shopping cart but sweets. That's why mother always had to do a separate food shopping run if her family was ever going to eat anything nutritious. When I got married and was finally living on my own, I was in Heaven. No more sharing that creamy, sweet delectable stuff with anyone else as Beloved was never a big fan of the flavors I liked. So I'd buy a bucket or two a week of whatever flavor I was feeling and, of course, did the Friday rounds to 7-11 with the Beloved to pick up some Ben and Jerry's to go along with our movie night. He'd get his flavor and I'd get my Chunky Monkey, banana ice cream with chunks of chocolate and walnuts.

I.
Was.
In.
Heaven.

And I'd eat the whole thing. There was no such thing as leaving some for the following day. A pint? Please. That was a starter course for me. I could sit and go through a half gallon of ice cream a night without blinking an eye. It was never that I'd meant to eat that much but I'd eat mindlessly and before you knew it, it was gone. And since I was never the type the gain weight and was always reed thin, I never saw any reason to stop eating it.

Until....

Until somewhere in my mid-thirties my pancreas finally had had enough and began to revolt. Up and down, up and down my sugars went all day. Now eating sweets was not fun anymore. In fact, it made me sick. Terribly sick. Bloody, bloody Hell. Gone was my diet of ice cream, coffee, and cakes. I lived on the stuff. I would eat nutritionally yes, but I also had way more than the daily requirement of sweets and coffee and well, my body decided it was no longer going to humor me. I was pissed.

I didn't drink. I didn't smoke. I didn't do drugs. Sweets were my vice and the fucker gave notice saying it longer found my company enjoyable. I had turned into a bore and he was gonna look for another more entertaining chick.

Blah!

Today, I eat so well it's damn near amazing coming from a recovering sugar ho. Perhaps the faulty pancreas had something to do with it. I'm so glad the Vice didn't stick around to see what I had turned into. My reputation among my sweet-peeps would've been ruined.

But I still like chocolate ice cream...with loads of nuts ....and chocolate sprinkles. And I'll treat myself to it at TCBY every now and again in the form of yogurt. One small cup and I get so high off the stuff I'm damn near uncommunicative. And friggin', f*ckin happy....

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