Be sure your sins will find you out...

Tonight, my best friend nudged me to go ahead and write a blog by posting the simple prompt, "Blog?" on my Facebook page. I had been contemplating it, but it's one of those nights where what I have to say is downright shameful--thus downright difficult to post.

All week, I've been writing an incredibly difficult--though rewarding--research paper on the writer Aphra Behn's play, The Rover. For the past five days, I've spent the greater part of my free time at the computer. We're talking HOURS here. Last night, I became so enthralled in my research that I kept reading and digging and reading and digging for information to prove my thesis--when suddenly I realized it was 4:00 (A.M.). This past week, I've cancelled two appointments with my trainer and did not attend any of his boot camp classes (which I usually attend at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Ignoring that my brain may need the valuable oxygen that comes from a good cardiovascular cram session, I plugged through book after article after book of interesting facts pertaining to my research. The good news here? I have a reasonably decent thesis for my paper. The bad news? This has wreaked havoc on my normal routine.

In an effort to reunite myself with the world, I went to a local restaurant with my husband for dinner. Following my brother's soon-to-be-doctorly advice, I ordered: the Greek salad with grilled chicken (no red meat); More carbs than brother would like (given the bread and olive oil dip), and an unsweetened ice tea (followed with the diet coke that I couldn't resist). Though I did fairly well on my choices, one thing stood in my way from feeling great about being healthy: Le Desert case.

It is strategically placed just to the right of the counter where you order. Like one of the brothels in the red district of Amsterdam, it houses all sorts of illicit, sinful, flirtatious desserts that call out to me--begging me to indulge myself. Okay, so maybe prostitution is the wrong comparison, but the point here is that these desserts look SO delicious that I felt guilty the moment my eyes grazed their smooth, velvety chocolate frosted curves. I feel dirty just writing about them.

At any rate, I walked away from the case of sin, mostly with the assistance of my husband--who doesn't understand because he doesn't particularly like dessert. If it were a case of chicken wings, he'd be feeling my pain. I make it the whole 45 minutes, enduring my salad and then rushing to the door to avoid eye contact with the dessert case.

We get home, and one would think I was in the safe zone. Except...I just couldn't get that dessert case off my mind. I had to have something sweet. A Fiber One bar or 100-calorie pack of Craisins wasn't going to do the trick. I had to find a way to get out and get something chocolate. Something really, truly sinful. I grab my keys, tell my husband that I'm going to Panera to read, and think about whether to get a cookie or cake from Panera. I pull up to Panera, go in, and realize they've taken most of the desserts out of the case. It was like the police had raided this brothel. There was nothing really left but a few sad bagels, some very dried-up-looking loaves of bread, and trays with doilies showing where the delicious desserts previously reclined.

I turn and head for the door, thinking about where I can now get my chocolate fix. My best guess is Starbucks up the street. I go in, and they have nothing truly chocolate, so I turn and leave again. I head to Publix. I park shockingly close to the front of the store and sulk into the bakery area. I always feel so guilty perusing this area--like a drug junkie seeking a high. I peek at the drug--I mean, dessert--case. I see cheesecake, packs of brownies, cupcakes, and finally...Chocolate Overload Cake. Just to be sure, I look behind me at the other case where there are petit fours, cheesecake, and mini-birthday cakes. I walk back and forth between the two cases twice before the two ladies in the bakery try to help me: "Were you looking for something particular?" they smile. I feel incriminated, and mumble, "What? Oh, me? Naw, I'm good." I go back for the Chocolate Overload cake. Quickly as possible, I snatch it from the case and in one fluid move swagger over to the register, hoping that no one is seeing me make this exchange. I get to the Express Line, and the clerk perkily observes, "OH, MMMM...Chocolate Overload." My head jerks up from looking down at my wallet, and I want to tell her "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...not so loud, someone might hear you." Instead, I smile and pay cash. Then I do the first running I've done all week, right out the door.

I make it home safe and sound, ready to dive into my ecstasy of CHOCOLATE OVERLOAD, when I realize my husband hasn't left for the office yet like he said he was going to. I'm so busted. I make the walk of shame in to my house, casually place my purse and my purchase on the counter--and respond to his surprised remark that I'm home faster than he expected. Without making eye contact, I go get a fork. I can tell he's looking at the Publix bag. When he sees me unveil the chocolate sin, he immediately chastises me for my poor choice. I yell. He yells. I yell again. I retreat to the office to write this blog, which I already know is going to be about my transgressions. He comes to kiss me before he leaves for his late-night session with Lady Law, and I settle in with French music playing in the background.

My menag a trois with Chocolate cake and Diet Coke ensues. It's sin. Truly.