A month ago I was advised that my first post would not be read by too many people because I was new, for one thing. I have been having a marvelous time at OS and have made some friends here, so I thought I would repost this article to celebrate. I wrote this story for a cousin while she was in the middle of successful treatment for breast cancer. She needed some laughter. 

DONUTS: Fiction with a little too much honesty

I cracked...  I caved. Wearing jeans and my fleece jacket over my night shirt, I drove to Wal-Mart at 10:30 p.m. because I could no longer deny myself what my body and mind had been craving for months: lots of carbs in the form of donuts.

Wal-Mart must make stacks of donuts at all hours, because they were reasonably fresh. I could tell when I picked out half a dozen and put them in a clear plastic bag. Of course I looked around, as casually as possible, to see if anyone who knew I was trying to get into a size 10 might be strolling by.

Can you imagine the security team talking quietly as they watched me from somewhere inside the store’s control center?

 “Jake – suspicious activity in bakery. Suspicious activity in bakery.”

  “Whataya got?

“Might have a shop lifter. Woman near cakes and donuts looks to be scanning for spotters.”

  “Do you want us to approach?”

“No. I will continue to observe. Don’t want to jump into a lawsuit. Could just be a dieter going over the edge. If so, she’s only out to hurt her self. But I’m going to keep an eye on her. I think I saw her scouting the cases earlier today. You might cover the exits in case she turns out to be a lifter and bolts.”

  “Ya think she’d risk it over a donut?”

 “Looks like she’s buying more than one. Looks like at least six. So you never know.”

  After a brief hesitation and a short burst of audio feedback, “JEEEsus. We’re on the move.”

My imagination was just too good. Trying to shake off the nasty scenes of people in my town learning of and becoming grossed out by my actions, I efficiently selected three sour-cream cake donuts, a chocolate long-john, a maple bar and a glazed ring. I tried to be casual, but I was so nervous I knew that if someone tapped me on the shoulder before I could get to the cashier, I would jump and maybe even scream. Did this fear stop me? Noo... 

I couldn’t believe I was taking such a risk. What if my boyfriend saw me? He had been so supportive of my weight loss and exercise efforts. I couldn’t lie to him if he asked what I was doing. And even if I could, what would I say?

“Um… these aren’t for me. I’m going to take them to Grandma tomorrow so she can share them with everyone at the retirement home.”

  “Won’t they be stale and suck by then?”

“She likes them that way," I say. "She grew up during the Depression and old donuts remind her of home, back on the Mississippi.”

  Looking a little more than dubious, my love replies, “Yeah? I thought you said she didn’t like chocolate?”

I say, sounding a little desperate I'm sure, “She doesn’t normally, but ever since she gave up instant grits for nutritious oatmeal, she has been feeling adventurous.”

  “So you’re telling me your 94-lb. grandma wants to be adventurous with stale donuts, looks like several stale donuts, including one with chocolate frosting – and that you’re here late at night to make sure she gets them tomorrow?”

  “Do you want one?”

It was time to stop thinking about that possible scene too. I couldn’t think of anything else to buy at the store and only wanted to get out of there anyway. I had never seen a security guard at the door before, but strangely there were two as I walked out in the frigid night air, feeling like I had gotten away with murder.

I have to say the drive home was awful.

I kept wondering what would happen if I got into an accident. What if I got into an accident on the way home because I was reaching into the bag for a donut? What if I got into an accident on the way home because I looked away from the road to reach into the bag of donuts and had part of a sour-cream cake donut in my mouth when I crashed?

“Frank?” (It would be casual because my dad, who lives a mile from me, knows all the cops in town.)

  “Yes.”

“Sergeant Grady here. There’s been an accident.”

  Dad would be starting to feel very uncomfortable. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Your daughter Melody. She has been in a car accident.”

 “I’m sure she’s at home this time of night. Are you sure?”

  The cop would feel bad. “Yes, I’m really sorry.”

My dad, his panic cinching up this throat so that his voice was much higher than normal, “Oh no! What happened? Where? Is she all right?! Is Zach with her?”

  “Well, she was alone in the car. She’s banged up, but not as bad as her vehicle -- and she’s in stable condition. The ambulance is taking her to the hospital. I believe she has a broken leg -- and I’m sorry to say the paramedics had to do an emergency tracheotomy to help her breathe. Something was lodged in her throat.”

Nope. No, no, no...  I simply couldn’t crash my car. I had to make it home. Which I did. I was so relieved when I was safely in my garage. 

Of course as I got out of the car, I checked the seat to make sure I hadn’t dropped any tell-tale crumbs on the upholstery. Then I made it into the house without being mugged by a crazed meth addict. Even that thought crossed my mind because people who really need a fix of something will go out in the middle of the night and do all kinds of crazy things.

I could just imagine Zach coming by the next morning to find me dead on my porch, with my broken watch stopped at 11:12, surrounded by donuts that had been thrown around in the struggle.

Must get over this anxiety thing.

On a good note, I was sure I burned up a lot of calories during the nerve-wracking 10 minutes from Wal-Mart to the safety of my home, where I could relax and eat my donuts in peace.

They were good, even though they weren’t just-out-of-the-oven fresh. I ate the sour cream ones first, then the chocolate, followed by the maple bar and finally the glazed one. I thought maybe I should have saved one of the sour cream cake donuts for last instead of eating all of them at the beginning – and I could have eaten them more slowly. I could have savored them. But I didn’t. Ugh. I was so full. I mean, really, really full. I ate six donuts. OH MY GOD!

I went to bed filled with flour, lard, sugar and self loathing. I was pitiful. What had I accomplished? I risked embarrassment and worse when the donuts weren’t even that great. At that moment I remembered that nothing I crave is ever really that great once I have it. And it is just food, nothing magical. I don’t need donuts or cake or ice cream. When I eat any of that stuff it just makes me feel bad physically and emotionally. How could I forget that? Was I crazy?

I thought maybe I should try to throw up. Isn’t that was other donut divers did?

I got up and went into the bathroom. However, bulimia is not all the magic TV makes it out to be. I couldn’t do it. I managed to squeak out a half a teaspoon of undigested frosting and that was it. What a jerk. I couldn’t make myself stick to my eating plan and couldn’t make myself barf up six donuts. I would probably get a zit from all of that sugar too. Or wake up with Diabetes. Over what?

Like a bar fly drowning in the bottom of his beer, I must have passed out right after I went back to bed. Disgusting.

The next morning the sun warmed my face as it woke me and I realized it was a new day and a new chance. I got up, avoided the bathroom scale, got rid of the empty donut bag and drank 4 cups of water even before I took my shower. I had a breakfast bar, did sit ups, leg lifts, practiced T’ai Chi, walked on my treadmill and even flossed. I had 4 more cups of water at lunch with a small salad and a boiled egg. For dinner I had 2 more cups of water and, like all the petite heroines of romance novels do after several exhausting days of trekking, without food, through mountains filled with horrible men, I nibbled on some dark bread and a bit of cheese.

I was re-energized to exercise and take care of myself. I vowed never again to put myself thorough the guilt, fear and self-abuse I experienced the night before. I can occasionally handle one of the three, but not all three. I mean, come on!

See? I knew what I was doing the whole time. I might make it to size 10 after all. Someday.