It was a revelation. With the first one I thought I'd just been lucky. Even the second. What a happy coincidence! How delightful! It was only upon savouring the third that I thought something was up. I looked at the box.
Ladies and gentlemen, Pot Of Gold makes a CARAMEL collection! I am undone.
Dear God what was I thinking? I had five of them. Okay, possibly six. Which means that in 6 mouthfuls of sin, I ingested over 30 grams of sugar and 380 calories. Which, when you really think about it, considering the oral orgasm that I had, isn't that bad a calorie count.
I'm in rehearsals right now, we're getting down to the crunch - rehearsing on the set, bonding with the cast and crew, and people are bringing snacks to the rehearsals. And apart from a fantastically healthful crock pot of lentil stew on Sunday - the food is utter crap. I mean, it all tastes a-fucking-mazing, but it's crap. M&Ms, chocolate cupcakes, chocolate bars - the newly discovered box of caramels...
Fruit plate. We need a fricking fruit plate. Or a vegetable plate. Communal food is terrible for me. The snack table, in my peripherals, beckons - it seduces. Shiny wrappers and colourful bags with their upwards of 25 grams of sugar in them, waiting to spike my blood sugar and then allow for a good old, wallowing in my willpowerless misery, sugar crash. High, and then not-so-high, in the space of minutes. Eyes rolling back in my head. People with 911 at the ready, in case I actually do slip into that sugar coma.
I need to get my shit together. I have two days before I'm called again. I shall gird my loins for battle. Time for the buddy system. Time to call in the big guns. I have at least 5 girlfriends in the show who know me well. They know what sugar does to me. They shall be my security team. See? The first step is admitting you have a problem. The second? Asking for help, so that you don't have to conquer this shit alone. I'm following Bill Withers's advice. I know I'm not strong. I'm leaning.