Driving down the street of my hometown I point out the donut shop where my longtime friend works. My mother replies, “I don’t eat donuts.” I call bullshit. Just the other morning there was a receipt on the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and a glazed donut. Mother says it didn’t happen. “It’s on the receipt” I persist.

“Oh, that wasn’t a donut. It had a hole in it. It was a pastry. Donuts have a filling.”

What? Is she serious? It had a hole so it isn’t a donut, even though the receipt clearly states, “glazed donut?” I’m mystified.

“Why isn’t it a donut?” I ask seeking clarification.

“Because I don’t eat donuts. I couldn’t,” she replies.

I bite, “why not?”

Then, the answer that I never expected to hear from the mouth of a person who is well into her seventh decade (but don’t tell her I told you that), “because if I ate a donut, I would hate myself.”

I was floored. Really? Truly? Your self worth is so tied to what passes your lips that you are willing to rename food you eat just so that your psyche doesn’t figure out what you’ve done and beat you up for it? And your psyche is so out of touch with reality that it’s okay with this arrangement? Wow.

I guess the lesson here is that a donut is not a donut when your self worth is tied to your food intake and you eat something that will cause you to “hate” yourself. What a sad state of affairs. I would rather love my fat self and enjoy a donut, whether it has a hole or not.