I’m terrified to step on the scale. I fear what it may say yet I’m always hoping for a miracle. And a miracle it would have to be. I’ve eaten chocolate for dinner two nights in a row. Literally, came home, went to the freezer, grabbed the tupperware full of chocolate bar varietals, sat on the couch in front of the TV and put the entire bar into my face- in that exact order.
Well, how did I eat it, you ask? I’d say frozen. A sad state indeed for a former pastry cook. I should know better than that. The optimal temperature at which chocolate should be eaten is room temperature, anywhere from 68-70F. But, um, it’s winter and there’s snow outside. Not an excuse, just an extra detail. The point is I didn’t even try. I wasn’t nibbling at the chocolate in those petite little squares, as the perforations suggest one should. Instead I smashed it into triangular shards against the wooden table and then again in my mouth, damn near cracking my tooth. At this point I don’t even remember what flavor it was. I only know what I had in the tupperware to begin with and what I have now; deductive logic concludes that the flavor was sea salt.
If I was hungry I could have ordered food, but I don’t think this was an issue of good old fashioned hunger. After I’d eaten my fill, I felt two things: slightly guilty and slightly pleased with myself. As if I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to, but felt indifferent to the consequences. Almost like I’m both child and parent.
So, I wait. In anticipation of the usual self-imposed diet, but it never comes.