I stopped at the grocery on my way home last night. If the contents of your cart tell a story about you, I shudder to think what mine was saying: Reese’s cups, Ghirardelli dark chocolate and mocha fudge chunk ice cream. Oh, and um, toilet paper.
No, I’m not a closet chocoholic. The Reese’s cups are for trick-or-treaters I probably won’t get. No one can find my doors; they’re on the back side of the house. But I have to have candy – just in case. They’ll be good for a snack on a cold November afternoon.
The dark chocolate goes to work. Each day after lunch I have one square. They’re delicious, they’re dark and they’re small. Dark chocolate is divine, and I can rationalize that it’s healthy. It makes me happy. What’s not to love?
The ice cream, well, it’s not really cream, it’s soy, which makes it healthier than real and surprisingly yummy. That’s dessert on the nights when I just have to have something.
And hey, I was out of toilet paper.
My father has never met a dessert he didn’t love. He eats the stuff every single day, sometimes twice. He’s 85, looks and acts 70, and is amazingly trim for a man who ingests so much sugar. And yet he sired a daughter whose Halloween candy would sit in the plastic pumpkin for weeks, until my mother finally gave up and threw it away. Really.
After one Halloween long ago, my ex and I left the candy on a table in the living room, still in its basket, and forgot about it (I know, I needed professional help). One day I pulled out the couch to clean behind it, only to discover a dozen empty candy wrappers. We could have just let that mouse die of high cholesterol and heart disease, but we opted for an earlier mercy killing.
I’ve evolved. What my grocery cart is saying is that yes, I love chocolate. But I aim for moderation, and most days I succeed. When my colleagues bring in their leftover Snickers and Butterfingers next week, I’ll just say no.
I’m saving up for the Christmas cookies.