It’s the time of year when the aroma of mesquite fires fills the air and even the festive scent of carbon monoxide at Winterhaven, on drive-through night, takes on a magical quality. It’s Christmas, the season when we celebrate the Nazarene’s birth by consuming merchandise, the tops of pine trees and as much sinful food as we possibly can.
It is also the Season of the Great Fattening, a concern for this Type 2 diabetic who has always struggled with temptation. Throughout the year I eat a healthy diet of nuts, berries, meat, vegetables, rocks, twigs, leaves, gravel, hummingbird steaks, bumble bee lips … the usual. If my blood sugar levels are healthy, I’ll treat myself to a slow deep breath next to a food truck.
But during the Season of the Great Fattening I am a fallen sinner.
Javelinas raided our trash can last night. I turned off the TV, sneaked on to our porch and peered in the direction of the snorting, grunting peccaries gobbling our kitchen garbage. My wife told me I make similar sounds when I dine during the Season of the Great Fattening. “Nonsense!” I snorted.
During the Season of the Great Fattening I share a lot in common with Gila monsters. First, I store fat in my tail, like a Gila monster. Second, when a Gila monster bites down on something it’s not about to let go unless you’ve got a blowtorch handy. Ask Granny how long I held onto her Butterball last Christmas. “I beat the varmint over the head with my broom. Soon as Jethro brought out the blowtorch he turned loose of our vittles.”
If the Wise Men were really wise, they would have brought pumpkin pie, some gingerbread men and a ham. You can’t feast on frankincense or gulp down gold. Did you know myrrh tastes awful on waffles?
While folks say grace I always pray for the strength to resist when the hostess will inevitably say, “Would you like some pumpkin pie?”
“No thanks. I brought a handful of pumpkin seeds. And this twig with a leaf on it. I’ll be fine.” Later, I’ll snap and eat the entire pumpkin spice-scented bar of Glade air freshener I found in their bathroom. At least my breath is holiday fragrant.
I test my blood sugar levels more often than the state of Arizona tests its students. During the Great Fattening, vampire bats tell me my blood is as thick and sugary as maple syrup. So I struggle to behave. It’s tough to behave because everything about the processed American diet is bad for you. Simply eating out is tough for diabetics.
“I’ll have the can of Crisco … the pound of refined sugar … and could I have the lard … on the side?”
“Excellent choice. Would you like your heart attack now or shall I serve it with your churros grandes?”
The only thing I should eat is the cockroach peeking out of the kitchen. “I’ll take the low-carb protein bar with six legs.”
Diagnosed nearly 20 years ago, I attended a class at St. Mary’s Hospital with two Tohono O’odham women who were fighting the disease just like myself. The ladies and I agreed on three things:
We were going to eat right.
We were going to exercise.
And we all hated Miss Perfect, the nutritionist. “She’s as skinny as a spaghetti noodle.”
“What did you have for breakfast, Mr. Fitzsimmons?”
“Pat’s Chili Dogs. Family Special. All to myself.”
“You need to change your lifestyle.”
“And my shirt. Got any salsa remover on you?”
Two decades later, I’m fine thanks to meds, exercise, eating right and the power of delusion. I exercise by walking, lifting weights and complaining about dieting three times a day. Whether I need to or not. Especially during the Great Fattening.
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a Fitbit, which I threw on a mesquite tree. On the second day of Christmas I walked into La Estrella bakery and begged them to never sell me any pastries no matter how much I howled when the moon was full.
On the fifth day I lost it and ate five golden churros, four sweet rolls, three sugar skulls, two empanadas and the Fitbit was gone from the tree.
The next morning I went back to eating carrots and twigs.
During the Season of the Great Fattening I want you to behave. Ignore the illusory temptations. This Christmas, feed your starving spirit instead and let your heart be full.
If you need any more tips I’ll be outside, nibbling the berries on your wreath. Merry Christmas.
