Let the chocolate chips fall where they may

The world has ceased to exist as I know it. I have recently experienced a paradigm shift of incredibly epic proportions. My entire life has been based on a pre-adolescent conversation that I had with a young man who may have had other motives as he assured me that I was perfectly proportioned. "How many tall fat woman have you seen," he asked, inexplicably trying to wrap up our exchange of dialog. I have clung to this reasoning for decades but a cloud of doubt has always hovered nearby. Occasionally, I sought spiritual council. I once called the church secretary to ask her opinion regarding my intent to consume an entire package of apple flavored Pillsbury Toaster Strudels. Reasoning that at least I was receiving a modicum of nutrition from the fake fruit filling, Amy T was happy that I wasn't just sucking the icing out of the eight individual packets. A year later, she provided additional support by saying that everyone had to eat a box of Hostess Ho-Hos once in awhile. She did not foresee me, spiraling out of control, parked on a side-street in Warsaw, secretly snarfing down those tasty creme-filled snack cakes. She didn't see my shame as a school colleague jogged by, pausing as she recognized my vehicle. "Amy?" Tess said, tapping on the window. I couldn't speak as I rolled it down, my puffy hamster cheeks filled to capacity, chocolate smeared on my face and the tell-tale white wrappers littering my truck. I haven't been able to look her in the eye since.

There have been interventions over the years. Brad has valiantly tried to keep canned chocolate frosting out of the house because I view cake as an annoying middle man. During the Easter season, my friend Sarah strictly doles out my Russell Stover marshmallow bunnies with the calculated precision of Nurse Ratched. In an attempt of healthier eating, I once intentionally switched from regular Raisinets to dark chocolate Raisinets but I lacked long-term resolve.

Today was an all-time low. I was unable to concentrate on my reality TV viewing as my mind was fixated on chocolate. To combat my lack of self-control, I had stripped my house of chocolate snacks. I even bought 1% milk so that, should I panic and try to make chocolate pudding, it wouldn't set properly. But there was a bag of chocolate chips. Chocolate torment. "Would you like a plum," Brad asked before fleeing the house as my head began spinning around. "Just eat the chocolate chips," Savannah said unsupportively. After childishly thrashing about, I lost the battle and retrieved the bag of chocolate crack from the hidden recess of the cupboard. Normally, I would have ripped the bag open and poured it directly into my mouth until the chips were gone. My approach today was deliberately different. First, I shuffled through the measuring cups. replacing my initial impulse with a 1/2 cup container. Pleased with my restraint, I approached the bag of chocolate chips and then made the mistake of reading the serving size. Apparently, thirty chocolate chips is a serving size in someone's warped, unrealistic world. Morbidly curious, I counted that amount into my 1/2 cup and, with sadness verging on despair, noticed that they didn't even completely cover the bottom of the cup. I returned to my seat with my "snack," slowly eating each tiny chip. It was not a pleasant experience. I didn't savor the treat; instead, each chip was just a painful reminder that I was one chip closer to the end. Is this a metaphor for my life? That, when I look at the 1/2 a cup, I don't see it as 1/4-filled or even 1/8-filled. I have obviously been pushed to the limit if I'm using fractions to make my point. I need to shift my thinking. To live life to the fullest, perhaps I need to revisit the idea of dark chocolate Raisinets again. And this time, I will show great restraint in NOT reading the serving size immediately prior to consumption. It's enough to make you lose your appetite.