What Brad doesn't know (about my vending machine addiction) won't hurt him

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brad glanced up from his phone with a frown. "How much do you spent on the vending machines each day?" he asked. Uh-oh. I thought he was playing online euchre. He must have finally drifted over to my blog.

I pretended to think. "Oh...I don't know...a couple of times...?" I finally answered. "A week?" Brad clarified. We've been married thirty years. The man may be cheap but he's no fool. I ducked my head sheepishly, attempting to look adorable. "A day," I whispered. He stared at me in shock. "You do know the mark-up rate on that stuff, don't you?" he inquired incredulously. I sighed. Other than being completely obnoxious, I had so few faults to speak of. Why couldn't he let this go? The vending machine was my Vegas. I lived for the thrill of pushing those little buttons. The adrenaline rush when my selected treat successfully navigated its coiled contraption and plunged several snack stories down to its receivership receptacle. The horror and despair that I felt when it was unable to escape the snack slammer.

My utter lack of self-control also is a major contributing factor at play here (Oh! I have TWO faults! Obnoxious AND lack of self-control!). Should a giant bag of peanut M & Ms appear on my desk...I am going to eat the ENTIRE bag. The vending machine actually helps work as a weight management system because I eventually run out of money. For some reason, Brad was horrified by this revelation.

Accompanying me on a grocery shopping run, Brad interviewed me about my snack and lunch preferences. When we got home, he armed himself with baggies and a Sharpie marker and busied himself divvying up portion-sized bags and labeling my string-cheese.  "Look," he told me, pointing to the portions, "You have two Monday cheeses!" I glared at him. Undaunted, he proclaimed gleefully, "Think of all the money we'll save!" So, on Monday, I headed off to school with my two labelled cheeses, a baggie full of peanut M & Ms, a baggie packed with honey, mustard and onion pretzels, and a sack of mini-oranges. "You can eat all the oranges you want!" Brad encouraged me. I was as blue as a girl could be.

What Brad didn't factor in was the truck breaking down this morning. Stressed out, I headed straight to the Pepsi vending machine to calm my nerves and experience that rush. But as long as he doesn't read my blog again, I should be okay.