Rethinking value of date nut bread

Kristine Gill

I have never craved date nut bread. I have never specially requested that my mother make date nut bread to send to me at school in a care package. I have never felt guilty for pitching what was left of my stale date nut brick. I have never craved date nut bread, until this week.

I guess starting a diet will do that to you. Things like the corner of my bed frame and the futon cushion have also begun to attract my interest. I’d rather gnaw on stained cellulose than sit by helplessly as my stomach begins to consume neighboring organs.

And no, this isn’t some crash diet in which I starve myself for two days, binge for three and repeat the process. If I wanted to lose weight that quickly, I’d amputate something.

No, this is a good diet. It includes all your food groups and requires an ungodly amount of water intake. A trainer gave the diet to my sister’s friend. So we’re just going to assume it’s credible, and if not credible, at least that it works.

If I do die from this diet though, it will not be in vain. When I feel death knocking, I’m going to bundle myself up — hoodie, sweatpants, boots and all — and strap on my backpack. Then I’ll walk my normal route to class. When my final moment comes, I’ll collapse on some sidewalk, preferably face down, and freeze there. When fellow students walk by, they’ll report my death and attribute it to the cold. I shall become a testament to the ridiculous commands of our school to battle the arctic winds to attend class and get our lousy tuition’s worth. (If they really wanted us to get our money’s worth, they wouldn’t open the Kent Market deli counter at 11 a.m., the hour conveniently coinciding with the no-meal-plan span).

Faculty and staff will mourn my death and their immense guilt will translate into weeks of cancellation. You are all welcome.

The cold is ridiculous though, isn’t it? Maybe it is ridiculous to think that it might be safer to just stay indoors. I guess temperatures lower than Alaska’s aren’t all that bad. And watching your spit freeze to the sidewalk in a nanosecond is pretty entertaining. You know what’s not fun, though? Wearing your father’s old long underwear — ask my roommate.

Every once in a while, on your silent tin-man-like walk to class, you’ll spot a black blur as it darts across the white snow. And you realize that squirrel missed the memo concerning hibernation during the winter months. These are the same squirrels that fell out of their nests immediately after birth.

The only hope for ending our discomfort in the cold will be the strength of my own self-control. Alright guys, pray that I can resist the temptation of that date nut bread, starve and die.

Kristine Gill is a freshman prejournalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].