I’m a pig. I’m not going to lie.
I’m not one of those girls who picks at the tiny side salad she ordered as a full meal. I’m not going to eat before I go somewhere so I won’t be hungry when I get there. If you offer me food at your house, I’m not going to say, “Oh, that’s alright. I’m okay. Thanks anyway.” Rather, I will take your offered food, scarf it down and help myself to seconds. And if you offer me a doggie-bag to take home, you’re my friend for life.
I love leftovers. I love your leftovers. If you invite me over for dinner, don’t put it past me to show up at your house with an empty container. And, by the way, inviting me over for dinner brings as much excitement to my life as finding a $100 bill in last year’s coat pocket.
I wish I was one of those people who eat only for the purpose of fueling their body. I wish I could stay away from the Chinese buffet line like I can stay away from crack. I don’t have a crack problem and never will. I know “never say never” but I’m feeling pretty confident. Maybe a policeman guarding the door of my favorite Mexican restaurant would deter me. Probably not.
I’ve discussed my love affair with chocolate before, but I don’t think you quite grasp it.
I love chocolate. I’m in love with it. I want to marry it. I want to roll around naked in an enormous bowl of warm fudge. Whenever a co-worker of mine asks for a favor, she always bribes me with chocolate. She knows. It’s evil the way she taunts me with chocolate as if it was cold hard cash, but I fall for it every time.
A couple of weeks ago someone gave my mother a big ziplock bag of M&M’s. Not the plain ones, but the peanut butter M&M’s. That night I stopped by her house and before I left she handed me the ziplock bag of heaven and said, “Here. Take it. I don’t want this in my house.” She and I have the text book case of addiction passing down to the next generation. Not wanting to enable her addiction, I gladly took it. I hadn’t even driven a block before the devil appeared on my shoulder screaming in my ear “
I left the chocolate flavored cocaine in my car over night since having it in my house would have been a poor idea. The next morning I took it to work with me in hopes of sharing my treasure with my co-workers. It never left my desk. The ziplock bag remained unzipped for easier chocolate-eating-access. Sure, I offered it to selective people as they came into my office, but I mainly kept my stash a secret. I was a chocolate miser. Selfish. A wild dog unashamed to growl and show her sharp teeth if you got too close without being invited.
Running an errand that afternoon, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I was nauseous. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was since I hadn’t eaten anything weird or unusual. Walking back to my office I passed the receptionist’s desk and casually mentioned to her that I wasn’t feeling well. She stuck out her bottom lip, tilted her head and said, “Ohhhh, I’m sorry.”
I sat at my desk to finish up a project. I subconsciously reached into the unzipped ziplock bag and grabbed a handful of M&M’s. It was after I shoved the handful of crack into my mouth when I realized why I felt sick: I was in the middle of a chocolate overdose. I immediately thought, “
I’ve gone on a three-month chocolate diet before.
I’ve never been so miserable. It was as if telling someone I dearly love that I don’t love them anymore. That I’m better off without them. It’s not true. It’s all a lie. I want them and need them in my life because they bring me joy. Make me happy. I can’t do that to chocolate. Chocolate is my friend.
If enjoying a good meal and going back for seconds or having an unhealthy chocolate obsession is defined as gluttony… so be it. Guilty as charged.
At least I don’t lie about who I am by saying I’m full after gnawing on a few carrot sticks.
Posts
