Day 72, Be Brave Project; Forbidden Fruits (and Veg)

I don't quite know why, but I spent the weekend eating like a 14 year old girl who was let loose from parental supervision. Last night's dinner was a box of Entenman's chocolate chip cookies and a couple of pints of skim milk. The night before was Breyer's chocolate ice cream, a smashed sweet potato with brown sugar and butter, a salad, and many tea biscuits.

That's not educated eating.

Those aren't adult food habits. And, frankly, it's a little weird because since I quit drinking I also (say Hallelujah!) quit dieting, so nothing's verboten. And I always thought that it was by forbidding foods that one made them ultra-desirable. Sort of like how telling bible belt kids not to have sex doesn't make them actually not have sex--it just makes them stupid about it.

But something was compelling me to treat cheap dessert items like a southern boy's invitation to the barn this weekend, and I didn't quite know what was up with that. I knew what I was doing, but I still went ahead with it. . . Then, last evening I was out on Columbus Avenue looking for a news stand and I realized.

I miss wine shops at Christmas. They're so sparkly and festive, like candy stores for adults--my favorites are the ones that have open crates of wine piled up, with the wine resting on straw while in the background the more serious reds stand sentinel on the shelves. I miss the cheese tastings and the people all bundled up in their nice wool coats.

I walked by a very attractive wine shop like it was an ex-boyfriend's house. Casual gait, but I didn't blink and I took in everything. The beaujolais nouveau est arrivee, the Sam Adams sign in the window, the wide wooden planks on the floor. The flickering golden light and the rushed employees in their smart green aprons.

Frack. I kept going, to my damn AA meeting, which last night felt like nothing so much as a cliche spouting load of bullshit, with the same people telling the same stories for the same spurious reasons. . .then I came home and ate my Entenman's.

Because frankly, even at my most tempted moments (like last night) I do realize that not drinking is in a way much more interesting than drinking is for me: I know what happens when I drink for a long time. I know what I look like and what I achieve. . . this not pouring the same old crap down the same unsatiated gullet is what is new, and interesting and potentially life-changing.

And I suppose a few empty calories are worth it.