This new frozen yogurt place up the road is going to be the death of me.
I have been committed for the last several years to eating clean and lean: salmon, kale, blueberries, gluten-free everything. Do I have cravings for a piece of dark chocolate, after dinner and during the national news? Sure I do, but upon researching, I learned cravings last but 3 minutes, so I simply distract myself for that duration by debating whether or not to have that extra glass of wine, and they promptly vanish. In control, baby!
Oh, if only I knew what lay ahead …
Traditionally, I’m an ice cream girl by heart, but wanting to support a new business, I entered this opium den otherwise known as “The Frosty Filly.” This was to be my undoing. A “do-it-yourself” venue, where you can wander from flavor to flavor, raising the handle — like soft serve ice cream — I combined Salted Caramel, Tahitian Vanilla and Key Lime Pie.
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Oh, my dear God in heaven.
“But Pammy,” I hear you cry, “at least frozen yogurt is healthier for you than ice cream, right?”
Bear with … Googling …
Er, no. That does not seem to be the case, oh naive one. While there is an absence of milk fat in frozen yogurt, there is only slightly less fat and saturated fat, and by the time you add the flavored syrups, you’ve disgraced yourself and your pancreas. Forget about any probiotics, too — they don’t survive the frozen temperatures.
Trying to make amends with my blood sugar, I was heartened by the sight of chopped walnuts in the toppings bar. Everyone knows walnuts are a super food with enormous health benefits. So a mighty spoonful went on top of my dessert, also known as lunch, crowning the small mound of ground-up Heath bar and chocolate mint bits.
As I pulled out my wallet, the proprietor waited by the cash register and told me the price would be by the ounce.
“A weighed ounce?” I asked, thinking that even this comment brought back hazy memories from the mid-1970s.
“Yep,” he said, placing my cup on the scale. Four bucks. Well, certainly cheaper, even taking inflation into consideration, than those Zeppelin-inspired yesteryears.
But here’s the big problem. I’m now enslaved to chasing the dragon. This place pulls me from my comfy sofa and drags me into its lair. I’m now making excuses to drive into town, just to get one more hit.
“But we don’t need another water filter,” Paul tried to reason when, wild-eyed and bedraggled, I began scratching my forearm and insisting I needed to rush to the neighboring hardware store at 8 a.m. “We already have six that you bought last week.”
“You can never have too many!” I said, panic rising in my throat. “There’s fracking going on nearby, and our entire well-water supply may become contaminated.”
Embarrassingly, all my integrity has flown out the window. Once proudly shunning Styrofoam and plastic utensils, I think nothing of the collection of white cups and spoons that now roll around in the cab of my truck, unable to be recycled and only valuable to a first-grader with uncooked macaroni and Elmer’s glue.
The only thing that will curb my habit are those damned shortbread cookies, and we all know that’s simply maintenance to an addict. No — I must be strong! It is a steel backbone that made this country great, and there are ways to cope! I have read it is helpful to keep a photo of children (except I don’t have any children) in my wallet to remind me life is worth living, sugar-free. So a faded snapshot of Bonnie, standing, wagging at the front door with a disemboweled squirrel between her nearly toothless jaws will have to suffice.
I will return to the hardware store this week, by gum, but this time for something I really need — work gloves — and I will walk past The Frozen Filly both coming and going, head held high and trying not to notice it’s exactly 12 steps each way.