Confessions of a Carbaholic

The Colonel has a confession to make public.  The guilt of his transgression is growing inside of him like an alien in Sigourney Weaver's belly and he has to fess up early, or later give unnatural birth to a monstrous scandal.

The Colonel had a chocolate chip cookie for dessert last night. 

There! 

Whew!

The Colonel can feel the beast dying inside, dissolving in the second mug of black coffee-induced gastric juices flooding past the check valve missing since his cholecystectomy.

(For the proud GED-holders who make up the vast majority of the Bama and LSU fan bases, a cholecystectomy is the surgical procedure in which one is liberated from a malfunctioning gall bladder and then is subsequently relegated to a life of measuring distances to the nearest restroom.)

The Colonel knows, one chocolate chip cookie isn't the dieters'  crime of the century, but..., for a carbaholic like him, chocolate chip cookies are a gateway drug.  

The sugar high from a fistful of cookies cannot be replicated by just another fistful.  

Next comes ice cream.

And, not just a taste of ice cream in a small desert goblet -- we're talking a medium sized mixing bowl of straight, uncut vanilla, garnished with a fistful of chocolate cookies.  

Oh..., did the Colonel mention that, during his retirement physical sixteen years ago, he was diagnosed as a Type II Diabetic?

Could've had a little something to do with a life of self-medication for his career's physical and mental stress with massive amounts of sweets.  The Colonel is painfully aware that he has no one to blame but himself.  

Here's the point where folks who know the Colonel well say, "But, but..., you are so skinny and stayed so physically active as a Marine!  Didn't you get enough stress relief from the 'runner's high'?"

Runner's high?  You mean the other gateway drug?

The first thing the Colonel did after a long run was accentuate the "runner's high" with a candy bar or three. 

The sheer mass of sugary empty calories the Colonel has ingested over his lifetime, if placed in a pile in the middle of one of his fields here aboard his vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, would implode to the density of a singularity at the center of a tiny black hole that would easily consume the planet.

Okay..., the Colonel exaggerates.

The sucrose singularity of the tiny black hole wouldn't consume the whole planet -- just the northwestern quadrant of the globe, leaving the big blue marble looking like the not-quite completed death star in the movie, "St...

You get the picture.

The day after last Thanksgiving, the Colonel stepped onto the bathroom scales...

He quickly stepped off and went looking for his reading cheaters.  

The cheaters didn't change the number on the scale's digital readout.  Well..., maybe they added an ounce or two...  

The Colonel was a good twenty pounds in excess of his "fighting weight."  He immediately placed himself on the Army of Northern Mississippi's (for which organization he is the commanding general..., and one-man fighting force) Weight Control and Physical Appearance Program. 

The Colonel had an appointment with his doctor a couple of weeks later...

"Colonel, your weight is up a few pounds since your last visit, and your A1C is north of 8.  Are you still staying active?"

"Active?  His scales indicate the Colonel has been actively ingesting any and all foodstuffs within reach."

The doctor looked over his shoulder, "Who are you talking about?"

"Using the third person to self-refer, Doc.  It's the Colonel's verbal version of nails on a chalkboard -- keeps potential threats on edge."

"Not working," Doc pointed at the A1C number on the Colonel's chart.  "We need to get that number down below 7." 

"We? Doc, appreciate your empathetic participation in the Colonel's health care," Doc reflexively looked over his shoulder and then back at the Colonel -- now slightly on edge, "but, this is all on the Colonel.  Started a diet two weeks ago." 

"You picked the wrong time of year to do that." Doc's usually soothing bedside manner was replaced by a more edgy delivery.  The Colonel resisted taking advantage of a "told you so" moment.

"Well, Doc," the Colonel drew himself up to his full 5 foot 6 and 3/4s (don't ever forget the 3/4s), "the Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him." 


Seven weeks into his self-imposed torture regimen (aka: low-carb diet) the Colonel is halfway back to his fighting weight.  He's experiencing serious sugar-withdrawal symptoms this morning, but at least the guilt beast in his belly won't have so much fat to burst through.