Self-control, why hast thou forsaken me? I know that I shouldn't eat this shit. I know that. I'm a grown up, I've lived with my body for long enough to understand how it works. So.....
I'm going to hell. It's the freaking holiday season, sending me headlong into the Hell
of a Thousand Sugar Plum Comas. Tonight's conveyance? A box of Pot
of Gold chocolates. Sweet Jesus, the rum butter caramels and the mocha caramels and the almond caramels... You see a pattern developing here?
I was given free boxes of chocolates. Yes, you read that right - boxes - plural. You cannot say NO to free boxes of chocolate. I defy even a diabetic, to say NO to receiving free chocolate. Hell, if you can't eat them, you could at least watch someone else eat them. You know, vicarious-like. Saying NO to boxes of chocolates is akin to turning away lottery winnings. Have you ever heard someone say, "No thank you, I'd rather not have the 7.6 million - give it to that person over there..." ? No, you have not. At the very least, one accepts the lottery winnings before giving those winnings to charity.
Me? I'm offered sinful confections and I respond thus,"FREE CHOCOLATES!?! ALLLLL RIGHT!!!!"
And now I type this post high on sugar and chocolate. Caramel is my Achilles Heel. The feel of it, its sweetness on curve of my tongue - it undoes me. You want to hobble me? Throw a box of caramel chocolates in my path. I'm high, with the added bonus of a sugar headache behind my eyes. I am also consumed with guilt for eating 7 chocolates - on top of the 6 I had earlier.
Watch how Heather's blood sugar spikes then plummets - right about here on the chart. Why does she do it, you ask? Because once those pleasure sensors in her brain are activated, she will not be satisfied until all the caramel chocolates in her view have been consumed.
Holiday chocolate bingeing brings on the holiday wrestling with one's inner bulimic. I will not make myself throw up. I will not make myself throw up. I will not make myself throw up.
Time to get Rissa to hide the other box before the cellophane is cracked.
Shoulders back. Own this. I apologize blood sugar - I fucked up. I'll do better tomorrow.