Confessions of a Chocoholic

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CONFESSIONS OF A CHOCOHOLIC

. . . I'm lying on the tile floor with a spoon dangling from

my chocolate smeared mouth. With my finger I am able to write

the words "MORE CHOCOLATE!"

. . . in spilled sugar.

Every pan is running over with peanut-butter fudge, raspberry

fudge, Pistachio Swirl Fudge, Rocky Road Fudge . . . and walnut

supreme White Chocolate Fudge. It bubbles on the stove, it

hardens in the refrigerator . . . I struggle to get to my feet,

slipping and sliding in the sweet cream butter and pure vanilla

that never quite made it into the pots . . . In the background,

the television broadcasts astonishing news! Wall Street is Wild!

. . . Hershey is going through the roof! Buy! Buy! . . . Nestle is

not far behind! Under piles of chocolate wrappers, I find my

phone. It's drizzled with caramel . . . in my state of sugar

ecstasy , accidentally, I speed dial 911.



My life is rushing before my glaring eyes . . . as I listen to

that heavenly sound . . . blub! Blubblub! Blub! . . . unmistakably

bubbling fudge (there's no sound in the world quite like it.)



I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the smeared

microwave oven door -- powdered sugar in my hair. How could

I have sunk so low? Don't I have any self-control? NO! My

stretch pants have reached their limit. I stagger to the treadmill,

sweep away the cobwebs - it squeaks as it starts up . . . okay,

I'll walk it off! But I find it hard to stay on the treadmill, my

hands still covered in butter from rolling those fudge snowballs.

Quickly, my mind races as I calculate . . . how long do I have to

walk on this treadmill to burn up 1,500 Calories? 2 days!



At fifty-two miles per hour!



I can do it!



When the paramedics arrived, they found me -- wearing a

chocolate stained T-shirt emblazoned with the words --

CHOCOLATE RULES! -- perched on the kitchen island, surrounded

by 12 pots of assorted fudge. Calls of, "Give it up, lady! This

little escapade is over!" carried no weight (as I had it all)...

I refused to budge.



"It's mine!" I called. "All of it!"



In desperation, they brought in an experienced police negotiator

-- no use. He might be able to talk a desperate woman down off

a ledge -- but away from her fudge -- I think not! Then, they

brought in my devastated husband, who pleaded with me . . .

"Drop it, honey! Put down the spoon! Look at yourself!"



Ashamed? Not really. But, I could see where there might be

a 'tiny' problem. Taking one last lick of the large wooden

spoon, I savored the taste of the 'demon chocolate' as I gave

up the pots -- one by one. It's not a pretty story, I know. But

perhaps it will help someone out there to see where this

obsession can lead. . . . Oh, I've gotta run -- they're coming

to take me for a little walk today.