Defibrillators.

Last week I was listening to someone speak about honesty. To make a point, he talked about a fib he had told earlier in the week. It just slipped out. He didn’t really know why he’d told it, but it got him thinking about honesty. In the process of speaking, he told us what he’d said. It had to do with not having dessert.

Later, I asked the speaker if he felt like he needed a defibrillator. I stumbled over the pronunciation. It’s not a word I use often. I was sure it wasn’t defillabrator. (That might be good for regularity problems. Prunes?). I wasn’t sure where the first “r” landed. But I must have come close, because at first, it made the man think I thought he had heart trouble. He picked up on the de-fib part soon enough, though.

I wrote a piece about honestly once. My word flipping mind wondered if anyone had an accent that would pronounce that word as honest-lie. I found a bit of amusement, but there was also food for thought. Maybe it goes along with the way some people pronounce lawyer? Or maybe not.

Back to defibrillators. The Google “featured snippet” from Wikipedia defines defibrillation as “a common treatment for life-threatening cardiac dysrhythmias and ventricular fibrillation. Defibrillation consists of delivering a therapeutic dose of electric current (often called a countershock) to the heart with a device called a defibrillator.”

Perhaps de-fib-ulation is a treatment for a lie-threatening situation. Delivering a therapeutic dose of truth afterwards might be called a de-fib-you-later. I think it works best with a dose of honestly, it’s the best policy. An unchecked fib can lead to consequences of just deserts. And while some might think that’s okay, it’s probably not very sweet in the long run.

By the way, the pronunciation of that meaning of “deserts” is the same as “desserts”. Another observation is that the sand in deserts is just little pieces of rock that shift with the wind. Not a good solid foundation. More food for thought.

In light of my I’m Possible Journey with sugar addiction, I will say that honest awareness of what’s happening with my eating (and being) is a huge part of me keeping in control and not having sugar controlling me. Sugar tells me lies. They’re sweetly sugar coated at first taste, but they’re bitter inside. If I can look past the taste to the aftertaste, I’m not interested. But sometimes the fibs just slip in. And I get my just deserts. Even though I typically don’t eat desserts.

I ate a casserole last week that had white flour tortillas. And I ate some stew that had A-1 sauce (corn syrup in the ingredients). I had other options, but I told myself that it didn’t matter. I’d just eat what was there. It was good food. But for me, the fib I told myself about the sugar content was full of discontent. I had other options with me, but I chose not to use them. My hands ache. My systems are out of whack. I want to eat everything in sight. And if it isn’t in sight, I want to look for it. But I’m not. Because I know it’s my sugar addiction talking. And it lies. I’m working with a defibyoulater now.

I’m thankful to have not ingested candy or cookies or a loaf of bread in this dis-rhythmic sickyouation. The truth of the matter is that it does matter. I don’t do well with the fib of eating between meals. Or not having enough protein with meals. Or not taking my multivitamin two days in a row. Not enough water to drink. And not processing my thoughts about what I’m doing. To quote another speaker I heard recently, “I need to get the nots worked out.”

I have gotten some exercise. Mostly walking–but walking at a pace some people call jogging. I’m needing some long runs if I’m going to keep on track with my half marathon training. Fibbing isn’t good in the training process, either. Just thinking about running doesn’t qualify as running. Not going the distance doesn’t round up, either. I might be slow, but I steadily improve if I work at it. Occasionally, the working at it means walking some of the time because I’m honestly listening to my body. Sometimes working at it means resting an extra day. Because rest is therapeutic. (Unless I’m lying to myself and I really need to be up and doing!)

There. Processed thoughts, not processed food. I daresay now my mood’s improved. And that’s not a fib.

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