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Sugar: The Mormon Drug of Choice

By Terresa Wellborn

Lets talk about addiction on this page now. As Halloween approaches, what more perfect time to explore the sordid world of LDS sugar addiction than now? Mormons excel at sugar worship. It’s not only a solo act, it’s communal. Just ask any North American Young Women’s leader what their treat was last Wednesday. My bet? …

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Born to Run

By Sandra Clark

Starting this summer I’ve been working myself up running regularly. I’ve gone every weekday for a month now, and sporadically for three months now. I’m currently at two miles a day. This is massive for me. As I’ve been improving my stamina, ability, and commitment I’ve circled back to this essay I wrote two years ago. It’s still true, and now I’m believing it more than ever before.

This week I watched my son run his first race. Granted it was only a mile, but he felt official with a timing chip on his shoe and number flapping off his back. He had high hopes of a trophy, which were sadly unfulfilled.  I was so proud of him anyway. It was fun to watch him, and see him so pleased with himself. Watching the lines of his fluid body move, extension of his legs, and hair tousled in the early morning breeze, I couldn’t resist the Bruce Springsteen lyric blasting through my head: “Baby, we were born to run.”

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The Freedom to Choose Indulgence

By Brooke Benton

Maybe it’s because I’m so full. Because I just ate the entire pantry full of Trader Joe’s delicacy: chocolate covered almonds, chocolate covered pretzels, chocolate covered PEANUT BUTTER pretzels, and THEN, after all that, cut the chocolate with a few macaroons. So this food journal entry, I’m cataloging it because I think it might be the reason I’m about to say what I’m saying and my normal, hungry, full of denial, green eating self can’t be held culpable. Anyway, here goes.

But before I say that I have to tell you this: I was on a flight two months ago, from Oakland to Salt Lake City, and just as I was settling my toddler into the seeming empty seat beside me, a pretty blond woman rushed down the aisle, with her blown dry hair and carry-on baggage ribbons of wake behind her, and claimed the seat. She was really apologetic about taking up some of the space I obviously required for four children and all their various electronic accoutrement, and I was taken aback by her heartfelt kindness—I don’t usually get a lot of compassion on these types of flights. And so, this woman and I, we really started talking. It was the proverbial set-up that you think will happen to you on every flight into or out of Utah, when you suddenly find yourself knee-deep in a conversation with a really open-minded inquisitor of Mormonism.

Of course, I only tell you of this quick association and the accompanying candor of the conversation to display for you the gristle of it—the chewy part I choked on.

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Coming Clean

By Melissa McQuarrie

Over the years I’ve watched my husband try a myriad of diets: the Beach diet, the Fat-Flush diet, low-carb/high-fat diets, low-fat/low-carb diets, a raw vegetarian diet that gave him bad breath for weeks (all that garlic, all those weird spices–ughh), even the infamous lemonade diet (lemon juice mixed with maple syrup and cayenne pepper, consumed for as many days as one can stand—in my husband’s case, it was eleven). I should explain that my husband eats normally most of the time; he also works out daily and is in great shape. But he inherited a slow metabolism from his father, who was obese much of his adult life, so every once in awhile—maybe once every six months or so—my husband tries out the latest diet in order to drop a few pounds. I, on the other hand, was born with a fast metabolism and, until the last five years or so, have never had to watch what I eat (apparently the fast metabolism gene expires at age forty-five). In fact, as a teenager I was so painfully, self-consciously thin that I did everything I could, including drinking protein drinks, to put on weight, to no avail (Cry me a river, I hear you say—I know, I know, but really, I hated it). And don’t get me started on my pre-mission physical, when I had to convince the BYU Health Center doctor that I wasn’t, in fact, anorexic, just abnormally thin, and that the stress of finals week had made me even thinner than I normally was. But I digress.

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