No donuts please

I am celebrating National Donut Day by not eating a donut.
I never eat donuts. And that is not hyperbole. I read the average person in America eats 31 donuts a year. I eat none.
I barely remember the last donut I ate. If I had to guess I would say it was five or six years ago. It was a peanut stick. That I do remember. The peanut stick isn’t quite a donut in the traditional sense. Still, I regretted eating it right after the last bite. It repeated on me all afternoon.
That, right there, is the reason I don’t eat donuts. They don’t agree with me, as the old saying goes.
When it comes to donuts, or ice dream, or other foods heavy with fat, I always say I’ve inherited my mother’s gall bladder. The difference between me and her was in the middle of eating things like a big, Boston cream donut, she would announce, “This is going to kill me later.” And it would.
I simply would not eat it.
I wish I could say my fear of donuts has resulted in a flat, tight stomach. It has not.
If only I could walk away from a tall glass of Sam Adams Summer Ale the way I can a pretzel-shaped glazed cruller. Instead, I am only too willing to go all in on National Beer Day. Which for me, unfortunately, can be every day.

Ed Ackerman