UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

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03/06/2006 - 3:31 p.m.

EAT ME

It must be the chocolate. It can't be me. I've had reasonably good self-control of late. So it must have been the chocolate. If it had been good chocolate, I would be sure it was the chocolate. Good dark chocolate is the most ancient of Sirens. But this chocolate was to good dark chocolate as a debutante is to an elderly streetwalker. This chocolate wasn't subtle. It wasn't even pure chocolate. It was one of those trashy mini-kiss numbers with the coating I donít even care for much. I sure hope it was a one-day stand.

I do not mind so much when I give in to my chocolate urges, as long as I have class about it. I do not want chocolate that is just so much champagne-in-a-can. Or, actually, I apparently do. I just do not want to want it. I do not want to have gone slumming. But I have and not just once. I did it over and over again---all day. I'd like to blame it on the evil secretary whose son works for a chocolate company but I can't. I did it. Me---and the chocolate. Let's face it: I have no culinary class.

And what possessed me to let this chocolate lure me in? Well, I'm working on a futile document in a case that makes me angry just thinking about it. But I've tilted at windmills before without stuffing my face with so-so chocolate in a gaudy garment. Well, I'm contemplating a weekend of being a single parent of a then-to-be-sixteen-year old. But, except for last night, we generally get along reasonably well. No, I cannot chalk it up to timing or to stress. I simply lacked willpower today.

I'll bet this chocolate did not even sing my name. If it did, the song was probably off-key or, worse, something like that hip-hop song at the Oscars last night: momentarily interesting but it just doesn't do much or stick with you. This chocolate did not say, "Come here, love, and look. You want me. You really want me." This chocolate said, "Here, baby, baby. Oooh, baby, baby. Eat me." It was not subtle. It was not classy. It was not even very good.

And yes, I will regret it tomorrow. It's only afternoon and I already regret it. But I have to accept it. What is, is.

And no, I'm not going to parse that "is" too closely. It might send me back to the candy dish.

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