Justin Kolber
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Don’t do it Justin. But I need it. I was sitting in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts in South Burlington, Vermont. My rusted Toyota Camry was filled with fast food takeout containers, as I debated how to order two dozen donuts just for me. I was an OB—Original Binger. There were no self-checkout kiosks or Door Dash. I had to stare down a human being right in the eyes and order my obscene quantities. Rule one was obvious: Don’t just be my true self. Hi, I’m a 28-year-old lawyer and I’d like to eat twenty-four of your delicious donuts really fast and then feel like killing myself, please. Maybe I should pretend like I’m ordering for my office’s Friday morning coffee gathering: Umm, someone wanted powdered-sugar….. Oh, bear claws? Adrian likes those. Yeah, two dozen should be enough for everyone.
I can run up mountains, bench press 300 pounds, do 100 pull-ups, crash my snowboard over and over to learn a new trick, and endure all kinds of physical pain—but procuring food in front of another human being cripples me. Shame pain is inescapable.
I grabbed my stash using the No-Frills technique—super-fast and low in tone—then hustled back home alone. Hunched over my dingy red couch, I hurriedly dug in, popping my glazed donuts whole like a sad circus pelican. Then I moved onto the salty main event: two supreme pizzas that I had pre-ordered for delivery. Food isn’t supposed to taste this good. Then again, as quickly as I speed-gulp everything, do I really taste it? Why can’t I stop? I assumed it was my weak willpower, clueless to the studies showing that ultra-processed food can be as addictive as smoking or gambling. Pizza ranks number one in addictive foods, with its holy trinity of cheese, crust, sauce—high fat, high carbs, high salt.
At least I wasn’t truly alone that evening. My childhood companions are always with me in my DVD collection: Conan the Barbarian, Mr. T, The Incredible Hulk, Rocky Balboa, Neo and Johnny Utah. Tonight’s viewing was Point Break. It seemed like a goddamn Oscar-worthy picture when consumed alongside fried dough. A washed-up law school graduate who learned to surf as an adult and solved bank heists? And more importantly, served up Keanu Reeves’ dramatic, whimpering, long-eyed vacant stares into a camera? Johnny Utah, you’re my spirit animal.
I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. I grew up in the steroidal boom of the 1980s, on a steady diet of ripped male torsos: live action wrestling, barbarian cartoons, and an endless stream of Jean Claude Van Damme kick flicks. My mornings were spent alone chomping down sugared cereals with my hunky bare-chested idols. Left to my own interpretations, those ab-filled images created a washboard floor with no ceiling in my psyche.
As a college gym rat lifting 7-10 times a week, my chest got bigger while my world became hyper small: chasing six-pack abs, extra lean protein, and fragile self-centered egoism. I was so alone, and afraid of being rejected that I had to squeeze my biceps before walking into a room. My muscles were my armor, my obsession, and my only identity.
The relief switch? Ultra-processed binge food. But it never lasts . . .
By the next morning my pizza and donut-infused numbness had worn off and I was back to myself. That meant a sugar hangover and crippling stomach bloat. On the plus side, being at the bottom of a pendulum swing gave me more jolt than a double venti morning macchiato. Eating a shitty greasy meal was a reason to eat healthy the next time. Screwing up was a welcome, distracting rasion d’etre. A mission, a purpose—it staved off contentment, boredom, and death.
After that morning came a breezy day of salad, sauna and fasting. Then another. I got this. I whistled as I sped by Dunkin Donuts on my way home from work. Then one day I popped a U-turn and found myself back in the parking lot. Don’t do it, Justin… It’s in the spaces between thoughts when we lose the battle. Without another thought, my car was flooded by powdered sugar and jelly filling.
I was a muscley mini-Janus, the Roman god of duality, chained to Deprivation and Overconsumption—not realizing they were two sides of the same coin. I flipped that coin over and over, abusing the William Blake method: “you never know what is enough, unless you know what is more than enough.” For me, that was one too many late nights of driving from Dunkin to Dunkin, hunting and gathering $112 worth of Munchkins and bouncing my debit card and my microbiome.
Now that I’ve had my share of enough donuts, I want to give it back, by sharing my story with others.
Oh, and I also share the actual donuts. I work in an office that occasionally has a real, not-made-up breakfast meeting, and next Friday is my turn to lead it. I believe two dozen should be enough for everyone.
losing our grip on purpose 