Once upon a time, I loved pop tarts. No; I lived for pop tarts. Not only did I wake up every morning looking forward to my daily (I repeat: DAILY) pop tarts <—– notice the plural; there are 2 in every package, ya’ know, but I savored them and had a methodical way of eating them that took me longer to do so, so I could prolong the poppy, tarty goodness. (*See below for details on this method) It was my morning routine at work to make that fateful journey downstairs to the vending machine for my daily fix. Strawberry was my drug of choice, and to this day, I can taste the strange goop of the jelly between the flaky layers now… /sigh.
Alas- today is a new day! A day that marks (approximately) 9mos since I can, honestly, say I’ve had a delicious Poptart to behold. For reals. It’s been AT LEAST that long. I couldn’t even give you a good approximation…like, that’s the best I could come up with it. Anywho: Poptarts. Me. Not happenin’. Bringing me to my main topic…
Today, my boss offered me a pop tart. Now, I’m sure any and all of you office-working, nine-to-fivin’, cubicle-livin’ folks know what it’s like when food is around the office. People are hounds, food is a’plenty, and there’re always treats to be had. My boss, J, knows the struggle too. He’s slimmed down a bit himself the last few months, and is a healthy, happy, generally reformed-foodie-understanding guy. But today…hoo, today was unlike any other. He reached out his hand (we sit beside one another in our cube farm) and held out an aluminum encased, strawberry (of all kinds), gloriously flaky, sprinkly, frosted pop tart. “Want to share?” he said. He might as well have looked right, then left, then right again and whispered, “I gots the stuff!”
My eyes widened to quarters, and like a movie, my gaze zeroed in on the prize. I licked my lips, remembering how sweet the taste of this little devil in foil was…and I paused. Do I ‘want to share’? CHEAAA BOIII, you bet your ass, I do! I’d tear that thing up. Screw the savor method- I was already envisioning breaking it in half, the goop peeking out under the frosty sprinkles, the flakes leaving crumbs on my desk…
I declined. Just like that? No, I shielded my eyes as if it blinded me, turned away, and flicked my wrist at J. “No, no; I don’t want. I DON’T WANT!” …or, maybe I just said “no thanks” – you decide. Either way you slice it, I refrained from temptation. And do you know why I did that? Because I am bigger than that pop tart.
Figuratively, and literally of course, but stick with me here! I’m bigger than that little “breakfast” pastry. My goals are bigger than that. Would one measly pop tart kill me, or make me balloon up, and kill all of my progress and hard work thus far? No, of course not. But that is neither my concern, nor the point of my (true life) story.
My point is this: I made a promise to myself that I was going to stick to my guns/goals, and cut the weight I feel necessary to not only run my first half marathon more comfortably and more efficiently, but to make myself proud. And to make myself happy. And to prove to myself that I am bigger than my snack fantasies, and that I am a lean, mean, half-marathon running machine! I don’t need a snack to make me happy. “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” aside – I find my strength within myself. I find my happiness within myself. I choose to eat right and treat my body the way it deserves, and the way I promised I would treat it.
(Phew! That’s awfully deep for a post about a dang pop tart…the yoga is getting to me 😉 )
*You really think I’m going to reveal the method to my madness?! Get outta here! Find your own way to torture yourself!