Can I call you “dear”? I feel like I can call you that because you’ve been fucking with me for years, in the kind of unhealthy, controlling way that makes Christian Grey look like the loved-up new millennium version of Mike Brady.
Our tempestuous relationship has spanned several decades.
Together we have weathered the storm of premenstrual hormone tsunamis, we’ve had illicit pantry trysts away from the prying eyes of toddlers and you tempted me into sin every time I tried to do my weekly grocery shopping without carb-loading at first sight of the confectionary aisle.
I love you.
I hate you.
It’s over between us.
Like Sonny and Cher. Brad and Jen. Taylor and Kanye.
Like Milo bars and the Australian public.
This Valentine’s Day my husband will not be striding through the door with grocery bags full of metabolic disorder in the form of chocolate bars and Easter bunnies (WTF supermarkets this is FEBRUARY), an event which has become a much-loved annual tradition in this house. (Last year’s love offering also included a shrink-wrapped tray of raw meatballs for some reason, which is sky high on every woman’s wishlist when it comes to romance).
Dear Chocolate, I have no idea what our breakup means for potential V-Day gifts this year but truth be told I’m a little scared. My husband once bought all of my birthday presents from a Coles supermarket on the way home from work one year because he got the day wrong and panicked. (It may have involved a pair of men’s shorts. Made from grey tracksuit fleece. But let’s not speak of this now).
Back to us and the breakdown of our decades-long love affair – if you can call unhealthy dependency a “love affair”. I’m finally in a new relationship with food and it’s a healthy one. I’m done with the craving and the bingeing and the guilt. I’m done with the giddy highs and the crashing lows. I’m done with the bloating and the lethargy. I’m done with the weight gain and water retention. I’m done with you.
Last year I discovered something called LCHF. That acronym stands for an eating philosophy called “Low Carb High Fat” but I like to think of it as “Lose Chocolate Habit, Fuckers”, because my sugar addiction has gone the way of the dodo and Donald Trump’s hairline – it has totally fucked off the face of the planet. Gone. And nobody cares. (OK bit harsh on the dodo there. Soz)
My new relationship with food has shown me just how fucked up and addictive our relationship truly was, and over the last five months I’ve finally managed to extricate myself from your clutches, successfully ghosting you at every turn like a magnificent fucking Ice Queen with steel instead of glucose pumping through her veins.
Ghosting you at the servo.
Ghosting you at the supermarket.
Ghosting you when my kids bring home party bags.
So now I’m here to make it official.
(Like the heartless bitch that I am).
I quit sugar, motherfucker.
And I quit YOU.
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all – may your meatballs be plump and juicy.
(Oh and anyone wanting to know more about the LCHF cult I joined can read the piece I wrote about it last year HERE. Seriously, this is one of those good cults. Like the Beliebers. Or the Thermo Nerds. Not the icky ones with all the killing and the charismatic leaders who send countless innocent people to their death)