“Round three,” the ring master shouts into the microphone, as a woman, who looks a lot like me, confidently walks in a circle carrying the number 3 sign.
I tilt my head up enough to see the number with one eye open, feel the sugar slowly paralyze my brain, spinning me into the catatonic state that I last saw months ago. Meanwhile, disgust spews a garbage taste from my sinuses to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow and whence at its taste.
“How many more rounds must I endure?” I ask myself, pressing my feet firmly into the floor as I stand erect.
“Keep your eye on the prize,” self talk reminds and encourages me to reach out for my water canister, tip my head back and guzzle, until I am full. I blow my nose, using the tissue from earlier in the day, stand tall and proceed forward into the center of the ring, armed with two organic carrots, and finger an encrusted tissue, as a reminder of what sugar does to me.
I punch hard to the left: step into winter, feeling the fresh air rush my face before I could pull up my scarf to cover my dry lips, then shimmy into my jacket to create a friction of warmth. Tucking in my mittens and sliding my hood up over the top of my head, I walk out into the open, incognito, a person of mystery.
Step by step, I am fighting the good fight, giving my body the movement it needs, and the fuel it craves to endure this round. I am refreshed, strengthen, and energized by the sun and exercise, that I’m walking like I’m on fire, until an ache in my thigh tells me it’s time to head home.
Planning ahead, I think through what’s for dinner, in hopes I can refrain from another punch to the gut or blow to the head.
Entering the house, I shed a quarter of my weight placing winters wardrobe back into the closet before habitually opening the pantry and reaching for raw cashews, coconut oil potato chips, and a pouch of organic fruit snacks. Tediously, my fingers pull out serving sizes and place into a bowl, before sitting down to devour the snack. I am well aware of what I did, not too bad for health, but sugar is sugar and though those fruit snacks don’t comatose me, I really didn’t need them.
“Drink up!” I am reminded reaching for my water canister again, before rectifying the situation, by slipping into the kitchen to make baked chicken tenders with quinoa flour and baked sweet potato fries, which took only minutes to make.
“Full” registers my brain, after sitting for a short period of time to consume a plate of nutritious food.
By 8:00p.m., I think I’ve won the day. That’s until my taste buds have an idea and knock me to the mat with a bag of organic butter popcorn, followed by another sweet treat.
“Round four,” the ring master shouts into the microphone once again, as the same woman, struts in a circle carrying the number 4 sign.
Refusing to give up and allow the referee to pound the mat counting down to KO, I lift myself up verbally confirming I’m good and down another two cups of water before snuggling into my bed for the night.