Endorphinatics

Breakfast choices aren’t tough when the options are All Bran Flakes, Honey Nut Cornflakes, and Crunchy Cookie Crisp Cereal, but it does cause some mild cognitive dissonance.

You see, whenever I hear the word ‘bran’ I can’t help thinking of an old lady’s toenails, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat fancy Cornflakes unless I was wearing a tie and rushing off to a board meeting – it just seems like too much of a responsible choice.

So it’s the one with the purple-nosed cartoonwolf on the front and spot-the-difference on the back.

Even if the box does boast ‘Whole Grain Guaranteed’ and ‘ With Added Vitamins’, I know a cereal made to look like little chocolate chip cookies that tastes like a bowl of refined white sugar can’t be good for me. And I’m fine with that, I just wish Chip the Wolf wouldn’t keep trying to tell me what a healthy start I’m getting.

Because I’ve been down that road, and it can only end in sorrow.

FROM THE JAWS OF TRAGEDY
According to Patrick Holford, who even Jesus would call a goody-goody, you should only eat fruit and Jungle Oats for breakfast otherwise you might be dead by Thursday. Reading his weighty tome, The Optimum Nutrition Bible, scared me so much I once stopped drinking milk and ran down the street screaming if anyone even mentioned white bread or deep-fried chips.

For a year I survived on water, green tea, low GI sawdust and anxiety. Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and I gave smokers that look I was so used to getting from reborn Christians.

And I’ll admit I felt better than I ever had.

I used to think that sluggish mornings and mood swings and near-suicidal depression was just the way it felt to be alive. I got my arse to the gym, joined yoga classes, and started worshipping at the altar of fat-free me.

And inevitably, like any newborn religious-type person, I became incredibly judgemental of everyone else.

At the supermarket I’d look in other people’s trolleys and shake my head, tutting loudly. I watched barroom drunks and wondered if they knew the long-term repercussions of all that salt they consumed with tequila.

Soon enough I was climbing into bed at nine on a Friday so I could be up early enough to beat the crowds to the Virgin Active step machine, ordering a burger with no bun and salad instead of chips if I felt ‘naughty’, and telling people that an apple would wake you up in the morning faster than a cup of coffee.

I became the guy you didn’t invite to a Saturday braai because my non-drinking made drinkers feel uncomfortable. I cut the fat off lamb chops and brought no-mayo potato salad.

But I didn’t care about losing friends. I was an endorphin addict; a feel good junkie. And like all junkies the only thing I could think of was my next high.

Then I was waking up at 4am so I could get a run in before gym before work. On my lunch break I’d sneak off to the bathroom to do meditative breathing exercises. I’d always offer to make the tea so I could sneak in a bag of rooibos chai without anyone knowing.

If it wasn’t for the intervention I don’t know where I’d be today.

I arrived home to find my family and close friends in the front room. My secret stash of Ryvita and unsalted cashews piled embarrassingly on the coffee table next to multivitamins and a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo dvd.

I was ashamed.

With teary consent I allowed them to lock me in a dark room, away from any access to filtered water and fat-free cottage cheese. Working in shifts they sat with me through sleepless nights when all I wanted was just one push-up, and held my hand as, trembling, I took my first bite of a KFC Zinger.

ONE DAY AT A TIME
Now I’m back on track. Taking it one day at a time. I’ll often see someone with a yoga mat under their arm buying rice cakes and want to stop them, tell them that they’re making a big mistake.

It’s not worth it, I’d plead, you’ll only hurt the ones you love.

You might think you’re in control, I’d say, but that exercise bike is riding you.