Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Ah Sugar, Sugar...

The other day Jude and I were hanging out making paper mache masks with our awesome artist friend and her boy, who is a couple years younger than Jude. In the way of most kids, he and Jude entered in and out of their running imaginary worlds and at one point the worlds collided; full of giggles, her boy announced "I'm smooooking..." and began pantomiming with wide gestures, waving paper strip cigarette to his lips. 

"Now Avi," my friend declared, containing her alarm more then any Jewish mother I am or know, "what do we know is worse for us than any other thing in the world? What's the absolute worst thing we can put into our bodies?"

The boy dramatically paused, posing in deep thought of finger to chin as modeled by our thoughtful elders. "Hmmmm? Hmmm... Ring Pops!"

I couldn't contain my glee. "Yes! Right! That is absolutely true! Don't ever get hooked on Ring Pops or dark chocolate M+M's or Bottle Caps or any other beautiful irresistible sugary thing, kids." I could've gone on. I could've said "at least when you quit smoking you get to have sugar!"

"Okay," his mother said, reigning us in, "yes...Ring Pops are not great for you, but no... what else? That's right. Smoking..."

"Of course," I agreed, "smoking. Don't smoke kids." I mumbled something out the side of my mouth about how it's still debatable.

Cigarettes extinguished and back to the task at hand,  my friend asked, "So why is it you're giving up sugar again?"

"Well, it's only for a month, first of all..." I said, because, first thing's first, after all. "And, well... I just want to see if I can do it." 

"Mama eats candy all day!" Jude chimed in, with which I couldn't argue.


As a kid, my dad literally had to drag me out of the candy aisle, while I anchored myself, lanky blonde ball and chain to the metallic grocery cart at Gelson's. He may have given in once or twice, consenting to say, Gatorade Gum or Good N Plenty, his downfall,  neither of which really counted. As a doctor, he balked at any compromise when it came to sugar, identifying it repeatedly as "chazari," Yiddish for junk, trash, rotten, in the same category as messhuga or mishegas, which he often trioed together in the same sentence.

I don't know how much psychoanalytics has to do with my lifetime tithing to sugar, but I do know that dad was right in that there is nothing good to come of sugar, except maybe vodka, which he was indifferent to. Everyone knows the truth about sugar; I get it, I know it and for the most part I maintain a functional relationship with it. And yet... every once in while I have to give it up for a while. 

I know it's time when I start dreaming about sugar. And lo, Monday night, the first day into a thirty-day white sugar fast, I dreamed of sugar. It appeared as a crystal, red ruby gem, which I kept knowingly both in my mouth and in my hand, the way you can in dreams; I was being chased in a labyrinth, not unlike the one from the childhood board game Shoots and Ladders. All along I knew said treasure was a red cherry Jolly Rancher, those tiny oblong hard candies that always melted a bit inside the cellophane that we got as kids on the penny shelf at 7-11, which I hadn't thought about in years. No way anyone was going to get their hands on my treasure, no matter the danger. Some dreams are embarrassingly clear. 

In Donald Miller's recent memoir A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,  he talks about an inciting incident, both on and off the page, as a moment in time in which you walk through a doorway of no return. Though I realize I am making myself way more literary than necessary in this regard, the week before Easter, one of my amazing Friday Writers declared she would be giving up sugar for one month, beginning April 6, waiting until after Easter so she could have jelly beans. We understand each other, this fella sugar fiend and I, commiserating often on the lifelong love affair we've both shared with the crystalline vampiress, right down to the methodology we similarly apply to eating Whoopers, so at first her proclamation felt like a betrayal; what do you mean you're giving up dark chocolate M+M's? You're just going to knowingly let me continue poisoning myself while you go cold turkey on me? 

I had no choice other to invite myself in. "Can I do it with you?" I practically begged. Kindly, she agreed, proceeding to outline the rules. "No artificial sweeteners, but sugar already appearing in things I already eat is fine," her intention, like mine, to stay away from processed crack-like sugar—in my case, nightly dishings of vanilla SoyDelicious with a chaser of dark M+Ms, hers something in the jelly bean family. 

By then, I was long past the point of no return. I had to do it. I didn't know why. I still don't know why. But I'm doing it and it's fucking way harder than quitting smoking, especially with Ma in town suggesting we go back to Perkins to get a sugar free mixed berry pie. (Her intentions are good; she swears it has no sugar in it one way or another).

Since Monday, my student and I have been supporting each other via daily texts and emails (see? another reason why writing heals!), ranging from the mundane to the bizarre (mine, not hers).  Man, I need her. I've also been calling TCF multiple times per day, as well as when we're together with, "can I have sugar now?" 

For the life of me I cannot understand why he does not have the same cravings as I do and I'm grateful for his patience. "Where exactly do you crave it, honey? Where in your body? In your mouth?" I get squirmy and fitful trying to explain an addiction he does not have. In turn, he encourages me to do something sweet for myself. "Do some gentle yoga, breathing...lay on the floor and remind your body to relax, honey." 

It's hard to take in what seem like platitudes those first few days. Sure, I love yoga, but really, you can't compare a forward fold to a bowl of vanilla with chocolate chips... not this late at night anyway. But I'm beginning to see the value of the nothingness left when the anticipation and ritual of ice cream and chocolate is no longer there. That same nothing is beginning to illuminate the sweetness that is there all the time: my son's smile, the lick of moonlight on my comforter, the feel of tired on my eyelids, TCF's kindness and compassion... not that I ever took these things for granted, but perhaps recognizing them for the genuine sweetnesses as they are—offerings from the heart rather than the pastel manufactured ones masked in the toxic illusion of love—is the real reason I jumped at the chance for this sort of nonsense.

Then again, it's still early. Perhaps this is still the denial phase. What I do know is that writing, as always, continues to be my sacred go to, whenever I need to battle another craving and remind myself all these melodramatics are going to ease up over time. If you'd like to follow my occasional rantings, I've made myself a nice little sugar shack at My Chazari, but it a'int a piece of cake. 


WRITE WITH ME?
What is your sugar story?
What have you had to give up?