When Oreos attack

Should you have an Oreo? You know the answer already: No. Cheat day is Thursday. Today is Tuesday. Yet you stand there, refrigerator door ajar, compressed air cooling the stifling kitchen, heat-stupefied cats, your feverish skin, though all you notice are the delicate chocolate ridges beckoning to you from the torn cellophane package on the top shelf behind today’s snack, pomegranate yogurt, fat-free. 

You’d done so well the last few days, limiting your caloric intake to only that provided by berries, bananas and whatever your body leeched from the cabbage diet soup you’d been guzzling ever since the button on your fat pants popped. It didn’t even occur to you until today to take an Oreo, though they’d been hiding at the back of the fridge since you’d concocted that ice cream cookie pie on Friday.  

It was earlier today, just before your lunch of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, that you’d walked into the classroom next door to borrow a plastic spork, and noticed the organizational chart taped to the wall: OREO written vertically, one letter for each stacked oval representing the four parts of a basic persuasive essay. You’d stopped and smiled. More double stuff than Oreo, you’d told yourself, noting the twin shapes between the sandwich ends. That’s when your mouth started watering. 

You scan the packaging now, search out the nutrition label. Knowledge is power and fat gram awareness might help you conquer this dark desire. O-R-E-O. O you remember stood for opinion. In your opinion, you’d done a great job avoiding Oreos these past five days. R for reason. The reason for avoiding sweets is because sweets are bad for your waistline. Right?  E, explanation. You’re sick of overdosing on fruits and veggies. You crave the sensation of sandy crumbs on your fingers, smooth center on your tongue. You yearn to rescue soggy chunks, insides still firm, from the bottom of your glass of milk.  O for obviously obsessed.  Shutting the fridge? Not an option. Your brain won’t comply. Your muscles won’t move. Your belly growls, which startles the kitty who claws your calf. The two of you exchange stares. She returns to licking the milk carton. You return to licking your lips. 

You force yourself to focus. Remember earlier that day. You went sleeveless and wore a loose skirt. Still, sweat covered your back by 8:30. You’d shut off the classroom’s fluorescent lights, pulled down the shades, shoved up all the windows that weren’t stuck closed, even propped open the doors to the hallway, ignoring the fact that the kids next door were having a furniture throwing -- or was it a swearing – contest, and one student outside your room was singing, off-key to boot. 

Six hours of broiling later, you exited that kiln into breezier 91 degree temps. You’d thought of second winds then, and how good you’d feel once you got home, changed, and headed onto that shaded five-mile running path, cool waters twinkling beyond the pine trees, canopy of elms, maples, aspen, protecting you from the relentless beating sun.

 

You try to convince yourself that the only reason you’re still holding open the refrigerator door is because the frigid air is preventing your insides from boiling up and suddenly realize that maybe running today isn’t such a good idea because you’re already half cooked. Plus that delightful blue package, temptingly torn, is flapping, winking, breathing with your breath, flirting with your taste buds, obliterating all rational thought. Too, the nutrition label is nowhere in sight. 

You push aside the organic peanut butter, the Greek yogurt, two quarts of blueberries, the Dutch oven containing another two days of that bilious vegetable swamp. You take one cookie. All you want is a nibble. But the Oreos are smaller than they were last week. It’s gone in two baby bites. You grab the bag, notice the chocolate syrup squeeze bottle hidden behind the grapes, and take that too. Clench the syrup to your heart, push the cat aside with one foot, the fridge door with one knee and just before the door slams shut, snatch the can of whipped cream for garnishing your evening fruit salad treat.   

You find a mixing bowl and a tablespoon. Tell yourself you needed a rest day anyhow and promise to run seven miles tomorrow and stick to water and salad for days, because right now you’re finishing all the sweets, so you’ll never ever be tempted again, or at least until Saturday, when you hit the grocery store once more.  

 My favorite food group