Year: 2014 | Melanie Bates

I’ve long had a love affair with Almond Joy pieces. Every night we would climb into bed together and I would caress the blue bag, pulling them out one by one to nibble at the candy shell, hoping upon hope that when I finally bit into the luscious chocolate there would be an almond surprise waiting for me.

Before that it was Nerd Ropes. Our passionate tryst lasted a good couple of years and I would twirl them around my finger like rainbow locks of hair, gently pulling the big Nerds off the gummy and popping them into my mouth.

Once upon a time, I was even married to Rice Krispie treats. We lasted about ten years. Unfortunately, after so much time together, the relationship grew stagnant and we fell into a comfortable routine wherein I would no longer bother to shave my legs and the krispies would no longer conform to a pan or squares. They would show up as a blob on my dinner plate accompanied by a fork. They just really let themselves go. We were quite the threesome when the utensil came along. Eventually I realized the dysfunction and we parted ways.

I’ve cried over a good strawberry rhubarb pie.

Lemon bars have broken my heart wide open.

Warm brownies topped with vanilla ice cream have done me in. Over and over again.

As a kid I was less discerning about who I cavorted with. There was Hubba Bubba, Big Hunk, Snickers, Pop Rocks (though, admittedly, he was a bit old for me), Baby Ruth (he was too young), Mike and Ike (I was too young), Watchamacallit… Ah, lovers all. The only two I couldn’t hang with were Peeps and Candy Corn. We just couldn’t get along no matter how much I tried.

Like any decent addict I wasn’t always in integrity when it came to my relationship with sugar either. One summer, when I was about ten, my seventy-five year old Grandmother came to stay. I was in dire need of a sugar fix, but my mom didn’t keep much on hand in the house. I cried to my Grandma that I had a project due at school – a mammoth sculpture comprised of colored miniature marshmallows and toothpicks – but my parents wouldn’t get me what I needed. She looked into my tear stained face and agreed to walk the two miles with me to the store and purchase my goods. That night in bed, I stared at my masterpiece composed of about twelve mini marshmallows and saw the empty bag lying next to it and clutched at my heaving stomach. Then I prayed to God for forgiveness for my lies in the name of my addiction. Okay, in reality, I probably just said, “I’m sorry, God” and uttered about half a Hail Mary.

I’m forty-three now and not much has changed (aside from the integrity piece now that I have my own money to get my fix.) When I walk into the grocery store during any holiday I head straight for the middle two aisles. It’s like opening the door to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The colors are so bright, the lighting so optimized, and there are shiny tinfoil chocolates for every season… and Valentine’s hearts and Cadbury eggs and jellybeans and Christmastime… Forget about it.

On January 10th, due to some pretty severe health issues, I cut out the sugar.

100%.

I’m in mourning.

Coupled with fits of denial.

What about Stevia? What about pure maple syrup? What about coconut palm sugar? What about certified organic pure maple sugar?

No?

What about a bullet to my nucleus accumbens, then? (I mean, I no longer really need that part of my brain associated with reward now, right?)

Now I eat bananas every. single. day. A staple that was never before included in my diet because I hate the texture. Mush anyone? In my previous life the only use I had for banana was as a flavor in my Runts candy conveniently shaped just like a banana and oh-so-delicious. Now this, um… soft fruit has become my saving grace. My savior. My best friend. I blend it up in shakes and I mash it up with coconut oil, pure vanilla extract and cinnamon and pour it over baked apples for a mock apple pie.

And still I mourn.

Valentine’s Day is approaching. Those candy hearts taunt me in their bright red bags with their sweet sayings stamped into succulent sugar.

As for my health issues and this new anti-inflammatory diet, I’ll be writing about that another time when I’m over the withdrawals and have shed my black veil.

I’d love to hear about your relationship to sugar. And… any tips you might have for my cravings would be oh-so-welcome.

In sweetness, sort of,

Melanie

I went to the grocery store a few weeks ago. I needed a package of Almond Joy pieces and some celery. (Don’t judge.)

I had taken one of those little mini carts, just in case I got a hankering in the chocolate aisle. Upon returning it, I was met by a lovely woman unloading her groceries from her own itty bitty cart. As I approached, she looked down and muttered, “I’m sorry.”

I uttered my cheerfully automated, “No worries,” pushed my cart to the side of hers, and pulled my bag of bliss from the cart.

And then I stopped.

Why was she sorry? She wasn’t in my way. She wasn’t even near to being in my way. And… even if she had been in my way, I would need to wait. She was there first. I’m not one of those creepy apes on 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was in that moment when I realized that she was apologizing for her very existence.

Maybe you think I’m exaggerating.

I don’t think so. It seems to me that women are constantly apologizing for just BEing. My rote “No Worries” made me realize that I’m so completely oversaturated by these occurrences that it doesn’t even phase me and I’m constantly responding with, “No worries” (a.k.a. = “It’s okay that you exist.”) To a dozen. women. a. day.

Holy shitballs!

Since I’ve had this epiphany, I’ve been hearing “I’m sorry” for weeks. It’s been like a symphony – from the woman at Target browsing for a new book as I stood next to her; from the gal at 7-11 searching for a sugar fix as I searched for more Almond Joy pieces; from another woman just trying to get out of the bakery that I was about to walk in to.

And… I just don’t commonly hear this phrase from men. Not that it NEVER happens, but in my experience it only happens about 1% of the time. In fact, just yesterday as I walked into the grocery store, a burly dude in Crossfit paraphernalia with three carts full of what I can only imagine were protein powder and bananas took his ever-lovin’ sweet time blocking six of us from being able to grab a cart and not a peep came out of him. Ten minutes later a line of twelve rushed for the carts as he strode past with forty plus bags on each arm.

Typically, I only hear men tell me they’re sorry when they actually have something to be sorry about.

So what is this, dear women? Aside from an apology for our very existence? Are we all hanging on to the adages of our childhood, “Be nice,” “Apologize,” “Say you’re sorry, Melanie, that’s not how little girls act.” I don’t have a definitive answer, but I’ve caught myself apologizing all over town these past few weeks, despite myself. How many apologies have I uttered in my lifetime? I bet I can’t count that high.

And… don’t get me wrong, I’m all for good manners. Saying “thank you” and “please” and not being that creepy ape I mentioned earlier, but apologizing for book browsing or sugar fixes should just never happen. Ever.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this, why do you think women are so quick to say “I’m sorry” when it’s clearly not necessary? Any theories? Any experience of this yourselves?

Aside from helping me to figure this one out, I challenge each and every one of you to stop saying you’re sorry. Unless you accidentally punch someone wearing Crossfit gear in the groin, then an “I’m Sorry” might be in order.

Maybe.