If I could have one superpower – it would definitely be INVISIBILITY. It’s actually a skill I’ve been practicing and perfecting my entire life due in part to my birth order as a middle child. 
Birth order predetermined the roles my siblings and I excelled in. My older sister, who was extremely smart (smart as in Mensa member smart), was also the family rebel. Trouble and chaos followed her everywhere, dogging her through a good part of her life. My younger brother was “the baby,” and mom’s favorite mainly because he was always being picked on. He struggled academically and was occasionally a victim of the neighborhood bully. He likely had undiagnosed Dyslexia, something that wasn’t even on educators’ radar during his formative years.
And then there was me. The forgotten, classic “middle child.” I embraced my status by being neither an over-achiever or a problematic trouble-maker. I followed every assigned rule so as not to draw attention to myself. I always employed good manners, cleaned my plate and rarely talked back. 
I was average in every way imaginable, including, but not limited to outward appearance, athleticism, creativity and brains. My personality made nary a blip on the popularity meter. I’m fairly certain that if you look up the word “average” in the dictionary, you’d find a reference to ME, sans picture, because as previously mentioned – I was invisible. And I was extremely good at it.
As invisible as I was, the role of the responsible, caring one, fell to me. I enforced the house rules when my single-mother was at work. I colored between the lines, obeyed curfews (unless I was hanging out with my older sister and her friends), never argued about doing household chores, and always diligent with my homework. These habits and characteristics also assigned me a nickname. My sister dubbed me a “goody-two-shoes” early on in life. She delighted in making fun of me because I never wanted to get in trouble, while trouble was her middle name.
Last week I realized that my goody-two-shoes roots run deep and are still very much a part of my life. I still follow the rules, use my manners, pay my bills on time, adhere to age-appropriate fashion protocols and practice the golden rule whenever possible.
While volunteering last week, serving dinner to my church’s entire pastoral staff and their significant others – I was nearly stripped of my goody-two-shoes medal. Prior to dinner service, I was tasked with preparing appetizers which were little bites of mouth-watering sin, composed of fat juicy dried apricots, goat cheese, honey and almonds. I did fairly well in restricting my intake of said “nummies” by engaging in a lively exchange with my hosts and fellow servers.
Once dinner arrived, I felt the first clawing of the beast within. My “Mr. Hyde” reared his ugly head, demanding release once the catered dinner arrived. The meal was from Oregano’s, originally an Arizona pizza bistro, that is now a nationwide franchise. Mr. Hyde deduced that this would be an artery-clogging, off-the-charts carbo-overload meal and he commanded his fair share.
Four different types of deep-dish pizza, one gigantic thin-crust pizza the size of satellite dish (roughly 3-feet wide), eight large pans of assorted pastas, a pan of meatballs, two large boxes of garlic bread and oh yeah, two large bowls of salad complete with high calorie dressing and croutons crowded the over-sized kitchen island.
The end of the meal boasted four large boxes of pizza cookies, better known as a pizzookie. For those of you unfamiliar with this manna from heaven, an individual pizzookie is more than a half-pound of chocolate chip, peanut butter chocolate, or white chocolate macadamia nut cookie dough, slightly baked in a 6-inch pizza pan, topped with three scoops of vanilla bean ice cream and chocolate chips that usually feeds 2-4 people. The party-size pizzookie (baked in a 12-inch deep-dish pizza pan) rounded out the carb-infused dinner menu. There were FOUR large pizza cookies and a vat of ice cream sprinkled generously with mini chocolate chips.
Throughout the evening, diners filled their plates with various combinations of high caloric food stuffs, many returning for seconds (or the rare, third-times-a-charm heavy hitter). Conversation was minimal as the only sounds were chewing and the occasional oohing and aahhing of mastication at its finest.
My service wait-staff cohorts and I were encouraged to fill a plate and participate. All dove in with gusto – save for me. My goody-two-shoes-good-girl-always-watching-her-weight responsible persona ate only salad! However, my inner beast, Mr. Hyde, compiled a systematic check-list of all of the foods he wanted to sample and/or devour and the order in which they would be consumed. (He’s fond of the “Always start with dessert” belief system.)
The battle was real. MUST EAT FATTENING FOODS! My good-two-shoes went toe-to-toe with my Mr. Hyde, arguing with an emotional fencing and parry that left me physically spent by night’s end. Mr. Hyde did his best to convince me that I’d earned the right to at last sample some of the doughy, saucy, carb-y cornucopia of calories because I was after all, performing a great and noble service by volunteering my time.
On my feet for four hours, preparing appetizers, washing dishes, doling out foods forbidden to one maintaining a weight loss – surely that warranted a small sliver of pizza, a crust of bread, or at the very least – that glob of cheese and sauce stuck to the bottom of the pizza box that was going to be discarded in the evening trash! His taunts and jabs were relentless and somewhat convincing.
“Come on! Live a little … you deserve an occasional treat!”
This was “not my first rodeo,” or a “one-and-done” volunteer effort on my part. I’ve been volunteering for this particular dinner service twice a year, for the past 7 or 8 years. I’ve done the groundwork. I’ve collected the intel, know the pitfalls and typically complete the mission calorically unscathed. Last week’s service, was no different, yet no less torturous for me and my ongoing weight loss maintenance battles.
I know I’ve been tempted before at this gig, but this particular evening found the temptations almost more than I could bear. I don’t remember the internal struggles being quite as tough as this one. Pizza ranks high on the all-time-favorite/junk-food-pyramid food group. I’ve denied my flesh pizza for longer than I can remember. What used to be a weekly past-time has been relegated to the occasional social gathering. Pizza is a rarity these days, definitely on the endangered species list. When the flesh is denied for overly long stretches of time – the flesh wants, what the flesh wants – and it fights tooth-and-nail to get it. And my flesh WANTED pizza – deep dish, thin-crust and of the cookie persuasion.
Barely surviving my brush with a near face-plant into a pan of pasta, pizza and/or pizza cookie – I find that many days later, I can’t stop thinking about the Herculean, almost “heroic” restraint I exhibited. Part of me feels as though I should receive some sort of cash prize or award – perhaps even, a survivor’s medal for the self-imposed, flesh-denying limitations I practiced. I feel as though the universe owes me! Look what I could have done – but didn’t!
The fact is – I never wake up in the morning and think about robbing a bank or downing a bottle of tequila. I don’t fantasize about getting high or shooting up heroin. I don’t entertain fantasies of marital infidelity, cheating on my taxes or beating my fur babies. I have never once wanted to engage in some sort of death-defying activity or sport.
None of these things have ever tempted, nor will they ever become problematic enticements for me.
FOOD, on the other hand – we have a long, difficult and complicated relationship dating back to the days when my single mom could barely afford to keep her children fed. FOOD temptations are so much a part of me, that I wouldn’t know who I was without them.
The secret for me is to keep these temptations at bay. Incorporate an “occasional” cheat day rather than thinking for a moment that denying my flesh of all fun foods for the rest of my life is even possible. It. Is. Not.
I praise God for the restraint I showed this past week. I thank the Lord that I successfully sent Mr. Hyde packing this time. I am grateful that Jesus goes with me everywhere and gives me strength when I need it most.
It’s true, the flesh wants what the flesh wants, but the spirit obeys the Lord. Life will forever be lived one day at a time; one meal at a time and above all … one bite at a time.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Kathleen Kurlin 