I was so happy.
I hadn’t touched an Almond Roca in thirty years. Memories of my grandmother pushing the candy coated toffee at me and swearing it was delicious had only made me turn up my nose, but time makes suckers of us all. In a fit of nostalgia on the candy aisle, I succumbed and bought a small pink can in December. It sat on the pantry shelf for weeks. I was sticking to my diet and there was no way I was going to allow a slip right before Christmas and the subsequent photos of me shoveling mashed potatoes into my pie-hole.
“Stace, it’s not a big deal. Just try one.” My husband was in on it. He was the one who encouraged me to buy the pink can of doom.
“No. I have no intention of filling out an ugly Christmas sweater more than I already do.”
“It has tiny nuts on the chocolate.”
I’m just a girl who can’t say no. This could possibly be why I have five children.
I unwrapped the candy slowly. My grandmother’s ghost hovered in the background urging me on. I brought the toffee to my lips, and then took a bite. Delicious. Took another bite — oh, hell no. That RY@()R@ toffee had cracked a molar in half. We were not pleased.
A new crown later and a little-bit-too-enthusiastic dentist — “Is this going to hurt?” “No, it won’t hurt me at all” — I haven’t touched another of those tempting yet horrid candies. I was back on the diet for good.
Until this morning. My husband, who apparently has a thang for curvy girls, brought home donut holes. I resisted as long as I could, then popped a powered sugar into my mouth, quickly so that the girls wouldn’t see and rat me out to my diet. They would have been too late anyway. The diet beast had already been awoken. Powdered sugar-coated my mouth and down into my lungs. I wheezed and coughed. Puffs of sugar exploded from my mouth and nose as I struggled to breath through the white devil powder. My diet had reared its ugly head and bitchslapped me back into submission.
I know when I’m beaten. This diet isn’t messing around. Next time, I may not be so lucky.