The Break Up

When I was a kid, I ate a peanut butter sandwich every day. I never had to question the contents of my Holly Hobbie lunch box because I knew my mom would hook me up with the following three items: one thermos of kool-aid, one Little Debbie fudge round and one creamy peanut butter sandwich. No jelly. No honey. No marshmallow creme. Even on the weekends, I consumed the same entree without deviation. I loved peanut butter. It suited me. It comforted me. And it was just plain awesome. You may be wondering why I faithfully ate the same sandwich for 12 years. Was I a picky eater? Did I not know that other options were available to me? Did my mother fail to introduce me to deli meats, potato chips, and pasta salad? Was there a shortage of citrus fruits or macaroni and cheese in the Midwest? Or was I merely a creature of habit who disliked change? Although my finicky palette would testify to the infinite joys of Skippy, Jif, and Peter Pan, I believe when I discover the beauty of a symbiotic relationship, I am like a moth to its magnetic flame. I guess you could say there are aspects of life that seem to fit together with the ease of a jigsaw puzzle; they are as natural as finding a chisel in Michelangelo's hand. Each relationship is a perfect reflection of ethereal artistry. I feel this way when I meet a kindred spirit, when I see sunshine glistening upon tiny grains of sand, when Jane Austen lines are spoken with saucy British accents, and when money is deposited into my checking account every other Friday. You may be familiar with some of these otherworldly pairings which defy mortal interpretation:

*Red, white and blue
*Hoosiers and basketball
*Girl Scouts and cookies
*Baby cheeks and kisses
*Polygamy and TLC
*Mitt Romney and the White House
*Erika and JCPenney

When these elements get together, the results are extraordinary. When separated, they are only half as good as they could be. But what happens when one ultimate pair threatens the happiness and coexistence of another? Currently, my love affair with sugar (read: the Girl Scouts are drug dealers) is negatively affecting my post-baby reunification with my Worthington Modern Fit career wear. I am stuck in a double digit world with little hope for escape. I long to slip my not-so-shrinking hip bones back into pants that do not require their own zip code. And believe me, keeping secrets while trying to hide the evidence does not help either. No matter how often I run on the treadmill or sneak 30 second ab workouts in the women's restroom, I cannot rid my body of trace amounts of sugar and my pants know it.

Blast you little girls in the cute green uniforms! And blast you island people for mixing chocolate, caramel, and coconut flakes into perfectly round circles with finger hole cut-outs.

What am I going to do? I can't keep up this pace. I cannot keep tricking myself into believing that one star-crossed liason will not expose my shame with the other. Since I no longer have the benefit of an overachieving teenage metabolism, I am fated to break up with one of my loves, but which one? I adore my polyester blend flat panel pants but I also relish my late night trysts in the pantry. I need an intervention! Keeping track of points is pointless. I need someone to follow me around slapping treats out of my hands because I cannot be trusted on my own. Whoever said that "with age flows wisdom, patience, and perspective" should be shot. Getting older blows! I don't want to break up! I want both my treats and my skinny pants! And a glowing complexion to boot!