[dropcap]I [/dropcap]am going to die; my doctor told me to give up bacon. He made me hold up my right hand and swear it. But you should know upfront: I can’t keep those kinds of promises. I’m not built for it.
The first dietary resolution I ever made was at age twelve. It happened one day at the public pool. I removed my shirt and heard giggling.
It was thereupon, Pauline Meadows said I resembled a tube of biscuit dough that’d been smacked firmly against the counter. My peers thought that washysterical.
In effort to slim up, I resolved to quit drinking Coca-Cola until Jesus came back. But unfortunately, he took too long.
Over the years, I’ve quit drinking Coke several times. I’ve sipped diet soda in its place, but that stuff makes me gag. I’ve tasted commercial toilet cleaners with more personality.
Giving up Coke is almost as difficult as coffee. Have you ever tried kicking that habit? My first morning without coffee, I peeked into the mirror and saw the face of an anemic Mick Jagger looking back at me. To be fair, things did get better. Because as it turns out, if you substitute coffee with Mountain Dew, you feel like a hummingbird.
The thing is, I can’t give up bacon, butter, ham, Coca-Cola, or coffee. At least not altogether.
For as long as I’ve peed in the upright position, I’ve eaten bacon. My mother cooked fatback slices as soon as the sun came up. After which, she’d fry eggs, sausage, and hash browns in the same skillet. Then, she’d pour the stiffest cup of black coffee legal in three counties.
After my light breakfast, I’d strut my hindcheeks to the public pool, buy a Coke, strip down to my skivvies, then jump into the shallow end.
And play Marco Polo with anorexia victims.