My Sordid Affair With Little Debbie

My Sordid Affair With Little Debbie

My weight gain happened sometime during elementary school. I blamed my mom because, let’s face it, we blame our moms for everything in our youth.


Why stop now?


I possessed a ‘bigger bone structure’ than both of my parents – they were both little wisps of people. I probably, realistically, outweighed my dad by the fifth grade. My mom informed me I had inherited her grandmother’s frame.


Lucky, lucky me.


So, when my mom noticed the first few pounds creeping on, my lunches became some vegetarian wet dream of the highest order. Only I wasn’t a vegetarian. And I wanted junk food.


My Sordid Affair With Little Debbie the messy badass Ashley Allyn



My fascination with junk food first began when I realized my ‘super mom’ wasn’t like other moms. Every meal was healthy, home-made, and balanced.


Every. Single Meal. Torture.


My first taste of McDonald’s, Kraft Mac N Cheese, and Fish Sticks at my friend’s house created a monster. I was like a crack fiend on the constant hunt. I wanted pizza. I wanted Cheese Zombies. CAAAANNNDY! I wanted anything and everything fake, processed, sweet, salty, and delicious.


Nope. Not allowed.


I was, in short, Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.


I want it now!!!


Day after day, year after year, I sat with my unopened ziplock of celery and carrots and turkey on dry wheat ogling my friends’ lunches. Cheetos, Lunchables, Wonderbread.


OMG. I would have killed for Wonderbread. I fantasized about snatching those delectable looking PB&J’s straight out of my girlfriends’ hands, tearing the crusts off, and squeezing them into big, luscious, doughy Wonderbread balls. You know what I mean. Don’t pretend like you don’t. I was developing a serious problem. (Understatement)


In Middle School, I began stockpiling candy in my dresser drawers. Then, I found Little Debbie. Oh, Little Debbie. My girl.


She was cheap, accessible, and became my new best friend – always there for me when I needed her. I kept her in my locker, backpack, and drawer at home in case a craving hit – Swiss Rolls, Oatmeal Creme Pies, Honey Buns, oh my – and they hit often. I even took a hard back book and methodically cut out the pages, so I could hide a super secret stash of Swiss Rolls.





Sometime around the beginning of my junior year, I finally realized Little Debbie was a bitch. Not one of those bitches you excuse having around because they’re kind of cool. She was a manipulative, sneaky bitch who had driven me to lies and obsession. She was a toxic presence. The kind you have to cut out cold turkey; yet I still made excuses for her. I kept her around.


One fateful night, our relationship finally came to an end. I awoke with a compulsive, obsessive need for her creamy goodness. I tiptoed to my dresser and stealthily rooted through the stockpile of delicious, cellophane covered cellulite treats. The sound of crinkling plastic had become like Pavlov’s tuning fork: it created instant drool mouth. My hand closed around a coveted Swiss Roll and I took it back to bed.


A stockpile of Little Debbies in a drawer should have been rock bottom. Or waking in the middle of the night to satisfy my addiction. Or eating Swiss Rolls IN BED. Nope.


It wasn’t until that night, when I fell asleep with a Swiss Roll clutched between my greedy sausage-y fingers, I saw the light. It was actually the morning light. The chocolate covered morning light.


It was horrific. Cakey chocolate everywhere. It was on my hands, my face, in my hair, and smeared all over the sheets and pillow case. Huge, spanning brown streaks against white cotton with little blue flowers.


It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what it looked like. I yanked the evidence off the bed, wadded it into a ball, showered, and hurried to school.





If I had been the kind of teenager who was an early riser – meticulously applying make-up and trying on a dozen outfits before school – it might have occurred to me to throw the sheets in the wash or hide the evidence in my car or something.


I wasn’t that type of teenager. I was the kind who hit snooze three times and kept the bus driver waiting as I sluggishly jogged to the bus stop. Once I had my driver’s license and a car, it became worse. I hit snooze five times instead of three. I was notoriously late to my first class.


If my mom had been the lazy type, the kind who indulged in soap operas and early afternoon martinis, a little less ‘super mom’ and a little more like me, perhaps my humiliation wouldn’t have reached such monumental heights. Alas, she was the productive type, whose mantra, ‘why put off until tomorrow what you can accomplish today?’, has haunted me far into adulthood.


She found the sheets.


I’m not sure what she assumed; she only asked, ‘Did you have a problem last night?’


I explained I hadn’t s@*# the bed. I was the victim of an obscenely unhealthy relationship with Little Debbie.


I’m not sure which admission is worse, but, at the time, ‘a poop incident’ seemed significantly more humiliating. Now, as an adult, I’m not so convinced.


I admitted to my mom I did have a problem: I hated Little Debbie, yet I couldn’t quit her. I devoured, and hid, and cuddled her at night.


I had officially hit my first rock bottom. I promptly dumped my treasure trove. Even the secret book stash. I kept the book, though, for future use.  🙂


I wish I could say my obsession with food ended, but, unfortunately, I had merely reached the start of my body image issues; it wouldn’t be a few more years until I fell off the cliff.


It was, however, the end of my affair with Little Debbie. I kicked that bitch to the curb and never looked back.


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