Forgive Me Dr. Atkins For I Have Sinned
Last night I kicked off my annual "Holiday Party High-Carb Binge & Blowout", with the first annual "Seattle Performers Unions Holiday Extravaganza" featuring "The Wonderful World of Baklava" -- or so it seemed. There was SOOOO much baklava. Piles and piles of it, strewn around the lobby of The Intiman Theatre like pieces of driftwood littering a beach after a winter storm.
There is still baklava, seductively sitting within arm's length of my desk, staring at me with those exotic eyes of almond. Tantalizing me with its flimsy gauze of chocolate barely covering its lusciousness. It whispers to me with a Siren's call, a sugary Salome seducing me in honeyed dulcet tones to, "Pleassssse, jussssst a nibble! One tiiiiiiiiny tid-bit of filo won't huuuuurt! You knooooooow you waaaaaant it. You muuuuuuuust haaaaaaaaave it! Eat it! Eat it NOW!"
And so, it begins again.
This is what my life will be reduced to for the next three weeks, as I stagger drunkenly from one sweet tart to the next like some sugar-starved fiend, seeking always to ascend to the dizzying heights of sucrose-infused euphoria, only to be unceremoniously body-slammed back down into the depths of carbohydrate catatonia a few minutes later. I shall wander, like a pariah or leper from one red-green-and-white decorated dish to another, shunned by the patrician vegetables, unable even to make eye contact with the pius fruits, clinging to the shadows beneath the generic holiday decorations like something unholy, emerging only to make brief, furtive reptilian clawed snatches at the innocent roaming herds of cookies, fudge, divinity, nut logs, quickbreads, candies and chocolates, mowing them down like buffalo on the Great Plains, a one-man plague of locusts descending to wreak biblical havoc on the verdant fields of innumerable plastic party platters.
And you shall know me by these signs: The the little flecks of sticky saliva clinging to my chin like morning dew on a leaf of grass, the tell-tale brown chocolate stains beneath my fingernails, the dilated eyes and twitchy fingers constantly grabbing the open air at phantom plates of sugary goodness, the waistline that softens and sags like a half deflated hot-air balloon, the throbbing of arteries as they vibrate like violin strings to the gentle rhythm of the Glucose Symphony.
If you see me in this abject state, do not shun me, for I am flesh, and flesh is weak.
And I PROMISE, I'll cut down -- right around December 29th or so.
on 12:24 PM