Yesterday, the fourth day in a row that I drove by my formerly favorite biscuit purveyor, I stopped and bought one.
Yes, I understood that the biscuit contained gluten. I recognized that the biscuit would cause me discomfort. My brain’s urge continued to override my body’s warning. I caved.
After I devoured half the biscuit without my customary Diet Dr. Pepper, I stopped. What was it about this biscuit that compelled me to break the promise not to hurt myself? This biscuit, the first gluten I’d eaten intentionally in weeks, had no particular taste. In fact, as the saliva moistened the biscuit, the bread transformed into a pasty consistency.
Why in the world would I cause myself discomfort and potentially pain or embarrassment for a piece of pasty bread? How could I crave such a bland comfort?
No answer came. This food that had served as a crutch for so long no longer provided the benefit my brain promised.