Calling It Quits

After a long, tumultuous and ultimately unfulfilling affair, I am finally breaking it off.

Our flirtation began innocently enough way back when. Every Sunday morning before church my mom would treat us kids to a donut variety pack: airy long johns iced in chocolate or vanilla; bismarks with the jelly oozing out; glazed twists that you could unfurl and eat in a long rope. And oh, the cream-filled ones! My brother and sister and I would scramble out of bed on Sundays to try to get first pick. Love, thy name is Donut.

During my first pregnancy my passion blossomed at the Hy-Vee bakery, when I couldn’t turn my gaze from the glazed, raised six-packs. Freed from sibling competition, about once a week I'd down three after Curt left the apartment for work. Ashamed of my gluttony and wanting to hide my rendezvous, I’d be forced to eat the other three as well. (I needn’t mention the negative effect my illicit lover had on my weight.)

On weekend trips to Iowa to visit family, I’d bestow the love on my own kids by picking up a dozen assorted on our way out of town. Anticipation of spending time with my beloved made the five-hour drive just a whole lot more tolerable.

As I matured, I pondered the profound questions of love and life. If I were marooned on a desert island with only one food available for the rest of my life, what would I want? Hands down, Dunkin’ Donuts buttermilk donuts, or “gut bombs” as they’re affectionately known in my family.

Through the years, the donut and I conducted an on-again, off-again relationship through various weight-loss regimens; my self-discipline always gave way as my desire overcame me. But a weird thing happened, so slowly and insidiously that I didn’t see it coming. One day, probably five years ago or so, it hit me with a jolt as I bit in: this donut has lost its power over me, and I haven’t really enjoyed our encounters for a long while. I was only going through the motions out of habit. I could throw it, unfinished, into the trash without a baleful second look. I don’t think I love donuts any more.

How did I grow immune to their charms? Is it health awareness? Did my tastes simply mature? Or is it possible they just don't make 'em like they used to? For a while I was in denial; I thought we were just going through one of those “down” times every relationship experiences; the feelings would return if I just stayed the course. Lord knows I’ve tried to keep our liaison going. Each time donuts appeared in the kitchen at work, I took one; I’ve made halfhearted purchases at Krispy Kreme. Just this morning, passing a donut shop, I pulled in for one last tryst. I bought two, for old times’ sake. But I only ate half of one, and the bag mocks me from the kitchen counter.

No more denial. I’m sorry, Gut Bomb, but we’ve come to the point that you just make me feel ill. You can't hurt me any more. I'm over you. I hope we can still be friends.