Jan

16

Splenda in the grass

I’ve been on a cut-wayyyyy-back-on-the-carbs food plan lately, which is a pretty big change from how I was eating during the holidays (“holidays” meaning the entire chocolate-smeared section of the calendar from Halloween to New Year’s, mind you) and for the frillionth time I am faced with the undeniable evidence that I just plain feel better when my diet doesn’t revolve around tortilla chips and frosting. Physically, mentally (like: bigtime), energy-wise, headache-wise, stomach-wise: better.

Now what would be great is if I would take this information, which I have experienced many many times, and commit to a self-care-focused long-term lifestyle which involves fueling my body in a way I know for a fact results in a healthier happier me as opposed to repeatedly having to course-correct after an uncontrollable downward slide into the land of Can Cookies Be Pulverized and Placed in an IV Bag? Let’s Find Out but 1) history does not indicate a high chance of success in this department, and 2) even in my most motivated state of being I cannot, repeat, cannot step away from the Splenda.

You know: Splenda. Sucralose. Those little yellow packets of PURE FUCKING HEAVEN.

Most current dietary advice now positions artificial sweeteners as The Absolute Worst, for a myriad of reasons ranging from toxicity to triggering spikes in blood sugar to being evil on account of synthetic things = bad. I’ve read all the suggestions to switch to things like Stevia, Truvia, Eryth … erythit … ritol, Swerve, monk fruit, and of course “a hint of honey.”

First, just stop it right there with your hint of anything. I’m not overly fond of honey but if I’m going to eat it I’m going to want an entire glorp, not a hint. If I were the sort of person who could be satisfied by a hint of anything I wouldn’t have half the problems I do, okay? As for the other sweeteners, I’ve tried them all and they run the spectrum from disappointing to downright hostile.

Nothing is as wonderful as Splenda, which I consider one of mankind’s greatest achievements. It elevates my coffee, it transforms my berries, it can be eaten directly out of a small prep bowl via moistened fingertip, not that I have ever done such a thing (OMG TRY IT WITH SEA SALT).

I feel like my devotion to Splenda, and its freakish effect on taste receptors — what is it, 600 times sweeter than sugar? — is indicative of a basic psychological makeup that probably can’t be altered at this point without trepanation. I like sweet stuff and I cannot lie.

Real sugar and processed carbs legitimately make me feel awful in a variety of ways and I have a terrible time staying away from them, which is why I’m always somewhere on the battle map with how I eat: either gathering forces and holding strong, or in full surrender.

But Splenda? Oh, man. When I’m feeling like this about cookies:

Splenda is all,

19 Comments 

Jan

12

Turn to the left, turn to the right

I used to really enjoy picking out my kids’ clothes because they were so ridiculously cute — a tiny button-down plaid shirt! A pint-sized pair of corduroy overalls that ensured the wearer would make that comical vip-vip-vip sound while T-Rexing his way around! — and they were certain to fit, as opposed to anything I ever buy for myself. Then the boys started getting lanky and I had to search out adjustable waistbands and Dapper Snappers, but they were still wearing adorable graphic tees and wee jeans and two-toned shoes with contrasting Velcro straps and it was all pretty delightful, shopping-wise.

Somewhere along the line things started changing. They grew out of easy-fit sizes, they developed style preferences, they each have their own set of issues with regards to fabric and cut, and now it is no fun at ALL to buy stuff for them.

Both boys are in between sizes, with Dylan being too big for a size 8 but not quite tall enough for a 10-12. All of Riley’s 10-12 shirts look too short, but the next (generally available) size is a 14-16, which isn’t right either. So good luck finding something that actually fits, but never mind that, the real challenge is finding something that meets their ever-changing fashion requirements.

Dylan is the most fussy when it comes to how things look and feel. The fabric has to be soft and loose, preferably that unpleasant-looking sports material that’s sort of shiny. The sleeves must be long, no matter what, even if it’s the last week of August and everyone is wilting from the heat: LONG. SLEEVES. ONLY. Jeans are tolerable but he would much rather wear workout-type pants or giant baggy shorts, ideally combined with a matching shirt featuring at least one garish fluorescent stripe.

Riley refuses to wear anything with long sleeves even if it’s actively snowing outside: SHORT. SLEEVES. ONLY. He also greatly dislikes sweatshirts, hoodies, coats, and pretty much every other form of outerwear along with patterns, stripes, and graphic elements. He would probably be happy wearing the same pilled-up grey t-shirt for the rest of life but like pretty much all of his clothing it is now too small, and have you tried finding a plain kids’ t-shirt in January, JESUS.

I myself have gotten more and more picky about clothes in recent years — fabric must not itch, cling, bunch, be too tight in the sleeves to properly push up, land at the wrong spot on my waist, or otherwise rudely behave otherwise I feel a sort of shrieky pull towards the nearest cliff — and so I get it. Big kid sizes, big kid druthers.

Still! I do miss those overalls. And the satisfaction of whisking them into a cart, secure in the knowledge they would delight their target audience: me.

15 Comments 

← Previous Page — Next Page →