A schedule cancellation set me free yesterday morning. I jumped at the chance to sneak in a loop at the Miccosukee Greenway with Mystery. On the way over to his exclusive gated community I stopped for a diluted decaf Americano at Craig’s Killer Coffee. I needed some calories to see me through the 20 mile slog on wet grass and the options were slim. A pan of blueberry muffins, straight from the oven sat on the counter, wafting buttery steam through the air. Impulsively I changed my order to a full throttle latte and asked for a muffin to chase it down.
On the way to Mystery’s exclusive gated community I tore that thing apart and ate it with all the gluttony and guilt of a mother stealing food from her baby’s mouth. I chugged down that whole milk, full caffeinated bucket of lust right behind it. Mystery was never the wiser. For the first 30 minutes of the ride I loped easily up and down the eastern hills, my legs deep and oaken. Somewhere east of I-10 the muffin descended into my pyloric valve and seized up the works. Oh the discomfort! The cramping and gassing! The refined white flour and refined white sugar molecules locked in a sticky unbreakable chemical chain of misery. Mystery sensed difficulty in my wheelhouse and began to turn the screws. With belly distended I hung on until the end and beat it out of his community via the service entrance, my gastro-intestinal delegation unsure of a proper course of action.
What had I done? A year without gluten, sugar, or caffeine thrown away in a fit of id-driven berry lust? Was this to be the end of the roll?
I tossed my office like Homeland Security and found my sponsor’s number. On the card it read, CORE 5:30 P:M. I rolled up my mats and jumped in the van. I needed a meeting.
For 75 minutes I flexed the valve in every direction, squeezing and stretching my guts while the buttery steam released from my pores.
Oh Great Magnet forgive me!