By Ginger Truitt
On occasion, I will hear some freakish woman declare that she doesn’t like chocolate. I can’t comprehend this odd phenomenon, and in fact, I’m not entirely sure those women are human. The next time I hear one utter the words, “I don’t care for chocolate,” I’m going to tackle her to the ground and pull her human face off to reveal that she is an alien.
My chocolate addiction is bad. Very, very bad. Two weeks ago, on my blog, I gave away a pound of Valentine chocolate. Five days passed between the time I posted a picture of the frilly box and the winner was announced. It was the longest five days of my life. Every morning, I would spy the chocolates and think, “I could eat these, and buy new ones for the winner.”
But, it was the very last lacy, pink, heart-shaped box available, and even though it about killed me, I stayed true to the contest.
Hubby decided that February 14th would be the only day of the month that he would be out of town. So, I told him I expected the full Valentine’s hoopla in advance. I excused him from a romantic dinner, and I didn’t make him write a song, but other than that, I wanted it all.
Just before leaving, he brought a dozen red roses, a romantic card (because I had specified I did not want one featuring orangutans wearing lipstick, or a Hoops and Yoyo musical rendition of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”), ten lottery tickets, a 44oz half Diet/half caffeine free Diet Coke (in a plastic cup, not Styrofoam), and a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates from my favorite local chocolatier.
The man got it right on every level, even purchasing a separate, smaller box of chocolates for himself so that I didn’t have to share.
He enjoyed a few of his candies on the drive to the airport, but I left mine at home. I resisted the urge to pluck one from his box, convincing myself that it wouldn’t kill me to wait until I could get my hands on my own.
It came time to drop him off, and mysteriously, he left his chocolates in the passenger seat. We hugged and kissed, and I shed a few tears, knowing how much I would miss him during his 36 hour absence. As I pulled away from the drop-off zone, I absent-mindedly reached for a comforting chocolate. It helped, but it was really the second one that made my tears dry up. Or perhaps it was that third, caramel-filled one.
By the time I reached the on-ramp to the interstate, I had polished off a half dozen. I knew he would expect them to be intact when he returned home, so I quickly devised a plan. Stopping at the chocolate shop, I bought a second box, thinking I would replace the ones I had eaten. But by the time I got home, his original box was empty.
I faced a dilemma. Do I confess and give him the complete new box, or do I eat 3 or 4 out of it so that he thinks it’s his original box? I sat down with my own pound of chocolates, and thought long and hard. I enjoyed the gooey ones, and the creamy ones, and the nutty ones, and the ones I don’t like as much but I always eat anyway.
Hyped up on chocolate, and the caffeine from the regular portion of my Diet Coke, I made a decision. I will not be dishonest over something as simple as candy. If I am going to start a life of deception, I’m going to go big and rob a bank or plagiarize a novel.
So, the next morning, when hubby arrived home, he found an untouched box of chocolates waiting for him. There was no disbelief, or really even a hint of questioning, as he stated, “So, you ate your entire box and mine too.” I owned my responsibility. “Yes, it is true. I ate nearly a pound and a half of chocolate in a two-hour period. But the good news is, even though you sometimes think I was dropped from a distant galaxy, I have proven that I am actually a human creature from planet Earth.”
Ginger is an author, speaker, and mother of five. Her award-winning column appears weekly. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.