It’s been a month since I ate McDonalds. 30 days. I’m shocked that I’ve been able to give it up. I don’t usually have this kind of will power. I can’t even really say it was difficult. I made a decision and I’ve stuck with it. Honestly, I can barely see the Golden Arches in the rearview mirror. I’m not craving. I’m not dreaming. I’m not even thinking McD.

Even my beat up old Saab is better. It’s not full of crumbs or sesame seeds. There’s no grease on the steering wheel. I’m not worried about Erica finding a used wrapper in the car. The Saab has driven by McD’s a bunch of times – there’s one just two minutes down the road – but it hasn’t turned in.

For the first time in 41 years I’ve followed through on a decision to stop eating something unhealthy. T. Don, my longtime therapist says I should be proud of myself. I’m not even sure what that means. It didn’t occur to me to feel anything about the choice until he mentioned it. But he’s right.

I’m proud. Take that, Mickey D.

I’m 41 today. One way or another, this is my last year as a fat guy. I’m determined.

I haven’t had McDonald’s for over a week. As a matter of fact, I’ve eaten rather healthfully for the seven days of our Miami Beach vacation. It’s easier when I’m with my wife and kids 24/7. I’m not craving McD’s much, but I do miss it. It’s quick. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. It’s like a bear hug from your big brother.

But McD’s is also Big Brother. It controls you. Manipulates you. Makes you want what you shouldn’t have, what hurts you. At it’s basest, a Big Mac is nothing more than a delivery system for factory processed, high-fat food that’s loaded with high fructose corn syrup. Trust me. It’s in the bread.

It will be harder next week. Erica will be back at work; the kids will be in school. The Golden Arches will be calling, and like a smoker struggling to quit I’ll want one last drag, one last hit. I didn’t plan that my last meal at McD’s would be my last. It just kind of happened. At the drive-in I ordered a Quarter Pounder with fries and a Hi-C orange drink, along with a Filet-o-Fish on the side. Ate it in the car driving aimlessly, and dumped the trash (read: destroyed the evidence) before heading home.

I realized the next day that had to be it. I’d betrayed myself and my family long enough. It didn’t make sense to keep eating Mickey D’s if I’d have to stop soon anyway. My first appointment with with the bariatric clinic was approaching and the decision felt right. I quit Cheez-Its the same week.

After WLS, I’ll need to learn to eat almost everything in moderation. But I know deep down that I’ll never succeed with some foods. That’s why Mickey D had to go.