Blech. It’s been four days since Halloween now and I don’t think I can take it anymore. You hear that faint whimpering in the background? Why, I believe it’s the sound of my arteries crying for help. Since Wednesday our house has been harboring a giant bowl of candy, and just as sinister as any of the mustachioed villains who ever threatened Clara Bow, it has been holding the fair-haired damsel of my arteries hostage on the train tracks of cardiovascular disease. (There, how’s that for a hyperbolic butload of similes, you broken down Democrats?! Thanks, Jim Earl!)
Anyway, my point is that this has been the toughest candy season yet since ’05 when I started going to the gym and lost that sixty or seventy pounds. Up until now I’ve been pretty good with all the dietary pitfalls that seem to be part and parcel of being an at-home-dad, but over this last week I’m ashamed to say I’ve shown a remarkable lack of discipline.
Despite that though, the worst may be behind me because I think it was this morning that I finally hit bottom. Sure, Ray Miland may have had the DTs and his whisky hidden in the chandelier, but he’s got nothing on me. For breakfast this morning I had pancakes. Not just any pancakes, but pancakes made with chocolate marshmallows and white chocolate orange slices melted right in. And I had a lot of them. A real lot. And they weren't wafer thin.
So here I sit on Sunday afternoon, writing this in the parking lot of the gym. I’ve just finished my forty minutes on the elliptical and am just waiting for My Lovely bride to finish up. Of course it’s all well and good to be back on the righteous path of dietary virtue, but just to be on the safe side I’m still tossing most of that candy. After all, I’d be pretty embarrassed if anybody found my stash of KitKats in the chandelier.
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