Finely Disciplined Thoughts (9 page)

I cannot fully, or even adequately, describe his slender fingers or the firm palm or the finely-boned front feature by feature, line by line, curve by curve, skin tone by skin tone for you. But I can tell you this … although I cannot determine with precision the moment I knew it first: His hand was beautiful.

And it is the beautiful hand, I know now in principle, which is essential to winning my highly disciplined heart. The hand that brands me must be a work of art.

For discipline delivered by an ugly hand would be for me, quite simply, a very ugly thing indeed.

A Matter of Good Taste

Chocolate. It melts so sweetly in my mouth. A warm, sweet, lazy transformation from solid to semi-liquid. It calms my senses and my emotions and convinces me the world is a pleasant, dream-filled place to be.

Diet Coke. It prickles and dances on my tongue. An icy cold jolt that manages to impart shimmering heat. Its almost-fire brightens my perceptions and reminds me there is adventure awaiting in the space I inhabit.

I have come to crave them with an intensity that astounds me. A “me” who has never before been governed by such need. I tell myself it is a harmless obsession, a desire I can control through careful daily rationing.

It is, ironically, that effort to rein in a compulsion that is my undoing.

Were I not devoted to self-discipline, I would both begin and end, and also celebrate the sun’s highest point each day, with multiple tasteful explorations of sensations that remind me of warmth and chill, smooth velvet and scratchy crinoline, gentle undulations and jagged edges.

But I am in control. I have limits. I abide by them.

Two bars and one can a day. No more. No less.

I scarcely notice the slight nausea that follows consumption or the temporary lethargy that is quickly replaced by a polar opposite need to move. I can hazard a highly educated guess what each of these impressions means; I prefer not to.

I came close to admitting the specifics to Chandler — as close as I will ever come, because he not only took my hints and built a case with them, but added some additional disquieting information I would rather not think about to make his assessment pretty rock solid.

I simply mentioned, in passing one day, that it was sometimes difficult for me to limit myself to only a “small amount” of chocolate and the “few sips” of DC that I “occasionally” allowed myself.

We were in the kitchen at the time. I was standing at the sink, rinsing and chopping veggies for a healthy salad. He was mixing the balsamic and olive oil and adding a few fresh herbed touches of his own. Since he was reminded by his doctor of a family history of high blood pressure, Chandler has taken to subtly changing our menus. He thinks I don’t notice, or, if I do, that I am quietly appreciative of his efforts. The truth? I miss Friday night double cheese meat-lovers pizza and Ranch dressing on my salads. But I don’t complain. I’m flexible and I don’t want my husband to expire for at least fifty years. I eat pizza with my girl friends at Tuesday lunches instead, and I dip my carrot sticks into Ranch at my desk.

What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt either one of us.

The next thing I knew that night, however, he had abandoned his wire whisk and stainless steel bowl and was squeezing that portion of my anatomy I sit upon with two large palms and looking rather grim.

“No one appreciates a good handful more than I do,” he said, “but I expect it would be in your best health interest to keep these sweet little cheeks contained in the future, darlin’.”

Had he noticed my jean size had moved into double digits? I wondered. He had never mentioned it; but then Chandler would never have made a critical comment about my appearance. In fact, I much preferred his appreciative and frequently voiced assessment of my physical attributes to the message my full-length mirror was delivering rather distressingly of late.

I didn’t intend it to sound snippy. I was trying for playful. Light. Unconcerned. “Nothing like a reformed sinner to preach the gospel,” I said.

He stopped squeezing and swatted instead.

Then he whirled me around, while I was mid-gasp, and backed me up against the counter, planting his hands very firmly on either side of my hips. I had one really uncomfortable moment wondering just how much farther apart his arms were than they might have been a year ago.

“Maybe I should have started the sermon a little sooner, young lady. But I kept hoping you would come to the same conclusions on your own. I seem to remember your doctor’s warning about your fondness for sweets and his concerns about the DC,” he said in a voice that always makes me nervous. I hate it when Chandler goes all stern and patriarchal on me. I would have given a lot for just one bite and one sip at that particular moment.

“I have it under control,” I countered. “Just because I said it’s hard for me doesn’t mean I’m not managing it.”

“Managing it how?” he asked. I could hear doubt in his voice and it irritated me considerably.

“Managing it by only having any on special occasions,” I said, thinking 4 p.m. had come to represent a special occasion every day, but there was no particular reason I could think of for Chandler to know that.

He looked skeptical, but he moved his hands to my shoulders and pulled me into his embrace. “Look, babe, I admit it, I am a reformed sinner, but if I’m going to live to a ripe old age by being one, I want you right there beside me. And I don’t want you there in pain, or crippled or blind or on dia …”

“I get the picture,” I said, pushing against him. And I did. I knew exactly what he was referring to. It was an image I had pretty much succeeded in relegating to a seldom-visited corner of my mind, but now all I could see was a fast-motion replay of the last few years of my mother’s life.

I remembered, thanks to his reminder that was playing havoc with my emotional equilibrium, the afternoon they wheeled Mom back to her hospital room from the recovery suite. She returned with only one leg, instead of two. I recalled with perfect clarity the hours I spent reading to her and then patiently trying to teach her to operate the machine that played her books on tape after diabetes robbed her of her sight. I would never, ever forget the final assault, the one on her kidneys, and the tears she cried for weeks, before lapsing into a completely uncharacteristic and sullen silence, as she tried to adjust to dialysis.

I had promised her faithfully I would do everything in my power to avoid letting the disease claim me, as well. That was when I gave up “the real thing” I enjoyed a couple of times a week and moved to the diet version I felt far safer consuming. So safe, in fact, that I began to virtually inhale it multiple times a day. I think the three-giant-sized-Hershey-a-day habit began those last few stressful and heartbreaking days I spent in the hospital with her, as well. They helped. In concert with the DC, they helped so much I had no trouble gobbling them down with equanimity and promising myself I would give them up very soon before my body defied me, as well. Very soon just hadn’t quite come yet. But I had cut it down to two bars, and only one can of the tingly stuff.

Exerting will power doesn’t necessarily mean I have to overcome everything at once, you know.

‘I need to finish fixing supper,” I said, turning my back on Chandler, which wasn’t easy to do, considering he was still crowding me into the sink.

He kissed the back of my neck. I love it when he does that. I hate it when he does that. It’s so hard to keep him in his place when he’s invading my space in ways that send shivers all over my body.

“I love you,” he whispered in my ear. “Tell me what I can do to help you deal with this. We both know whatever you’re trying isn’t working too well.”

“I’ll handle it,” I muttered. “I’m not a child. I don’t need your help, or anyone else’s. I can fight this battle without any more reminders from you.”

I didn’t even try to hold back the tears. I wanted him to know how much he had hurt me by bringing up my mother’s suffering and death. How dare he do that to me, especially so close to the first anniversary of her death.

‘I’m not very hungry,” I said. “I need to be by myself a little while.”

I pushed back, forcing him to open enough space that I slipped past him, grabbed my purse from the counter and headed out the door. He didn’t try to stop me.

I remember driving past the neighborhood gas station, which also houses my favorite haunt mini-market. I remember feeling triumphant that I had not wheeled in to make a stress purchase. I don’t actually recall circling the block or going in after all and selecting a triple play of moisture-beaded silver cans from the cooler or a literal handful of giant-size frozen Hershey’s with almonds. But I must have, because two hours later, I was perched on a concrete picnic table at the local park, waiting for the shadows to blend to one uniform navy blue shade, and feeling more than a little sick.

I didn’t down it all. I am not completely debased. There was still half a DC left in the third can.

When I thought I might be able to shift positions without throwing up, I stood on shaky legs and carried my trash to the nearest container. It was probably my imagination that my vision seemed blurred, I was clammy from the top of my head to somewhere around my knees, and my extremities felt as though they weighed 20 pounds apiece and were trembling independently of each other. I hated the whole world. I hated Chandler. I hated me most of all.

I swore to myself I would never be such a slave again.

I walked past Chandler when I got home and went to bed in silence.

I woke up the next morning with his arm holding me firmly curved, spoon-fashion, into his space.

“You were right,” I whispered, guessing he was awake, although his breath was deep and even. “I’m not gambling anymore with this. It’s over.”

He kissed the back of my neck again. We celebrated the start of a new chapter.

By the third day, I was back on page one.

I told myself no one had appreciated my brief detour into witch-hood when I went cold turkey. My new plan was to permit myself the rest of the month on my already established regimen. The next month, I would cut the daily allowance by a fourth, and so on until I had this demon vanquished.

Chandler never quizzed me. He never saw the evidence that might have encouraged him to. I made my purchase daily, on my way home from work, consumed it before he arrived, and then made my way to the cute little city-provided trash collection bin just down the street to dispose of wrappers and cans. I congratulated myself on my newfound interest in walking. So good for my health.

On Fridays, I tripled my order to get me through the weekend, disguised the candy bars in a foil-wrapped container at the back of the freezer and stashed the DC in an ice-filled insulated picnic tote seldom used and relegated to a dusty corner of the pantry. Sometime just past 2 a.m. became my favorite time to enjoy my drugs of choice in a darkened kitchen on Saturdays and Sundays.

On the last Saturday in the month, I woke up in my typical fetal curl position to the feel of something cold against my tummy and the sound of a familiar pop. I squinted into mid-morning sunshine. It would have been brighter, but Chandler was blocking the direct rays with his broad shoulders. There was a sweating, recently opened can in his hand that drew me like a magnet. There was a frost-tinged, mangled foil packet making a damp place against my sleepshirt. There was a look on my husband’s face I had no difficulty interpreting.

“I brought you breakfast in bed,” he said, holding the can out to me.

I declined to accept it. And I moved the Hersheys wrapped in foil to the bedside table gingerly, as though I thought the package might contain something truly disgusting.

“Well, maybe later,” Chandler said. “Yes, definitely later.”

He sat the open can next to the icy bundle. He sat himself next to me.

“Something interesting happened on my way home last night,” he offered. “I stopped at the mini-mart to get the milk you called and asked me to pick up. That Tiki who works there … friendly fella. You remember Tiki? Well, Tiki remembers you. You’ve made quite an impression on that young man, sweetheart.”

I wanted the chocolate back. I wanted the Diet. It scared me how much I wanted them right that minute.

“Yeah, ole Tiki was telling me how he thought they might have to close up the place when I stopped smoking and then quit dropping in for a twelve-pack every Saturday morning. I didn’t realize my bad habits were contributing so much to the local economy. He said it was a good thing you picked up the slack, darlin’. Two chocolate bars — oh, make that chocolate with almonds, preferably frozen — and a cold can of DC Mondays through Thursdays and three times that every Friday afternoon. In fact, he said I didn’t miss you by too much yesterday. Guess you didn’t have your mind on milk, though, didja, babe.”

“I didn’t —”

“Didn’t mean for me to find your stash? Didn’t mean for me to know you lied? Didn’t what?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t mean for you to know I failed.”

He sighed. He reached for me and pulled me up and into his arms. “Breaking bad habits is a hard thing to do, babe. If it’s easy, they’re not really habits. But you could have come to me. You didn’t have to do this.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I said. “You did it. All by yourself. You didn’t need me to help you stop smoking or drinking or eating wrong. You did it all — all by yourself. But I can’t do any of it.”

He made a small m-m-m-phing sound and rubbed my back while I curled in against him. And wished I had the Diet.

“I didn’t mention this before. There didn’t seem to be any need to. But I almost lost my job. Defied company policy and lit up in my office. A lot. HR didn’t take kindly to that. They said there wouldn’t be a second warning. That was one of the few places I smoked, for some reason, and once I had a strong incentive to stop it there, it just didn’t seem that important to do it anywhere else. Then I realized, after a few months of being clean, that my taste was changing. The beer didn’t hit the spot anymore. And after it was gone, I felt so much sharper, it seemed worth it to do whatever else I could to take better care of myself. But I had to bump up against something painful before I made that first change.”