It's the day after Halloween. In households across America, kids are begging for one more Gummi Bear or Reese's Peanut Butter Cup before breakfast.
The annual candy blitz is hardest on adults. We're the ones who bought all those sweets, knew where they were hidden, and struggled mightily to keep from snacking before Halloween.
This year, I vowed, would be different. Instead of becoming trapped in the downward spiral of holiday treats that starts with Halloween and doesn't let up until New Year's, I would be sensible.
I sent my husband to buy a dozen bags of candy, which I figured would be enough for the 50 or so trick-or-treaters we expected.
I have no problem staying away from sticky, artificially fruit-flavored junk. But chocolate - especially chocolate right in my own house - is another story.
"Um, honey, where did you hide the Halloween candy?" I asked my husband nonchalantly. I found the loot in the basement. Among the bags were Mounds bars, a weakness of mine. I tore a tiny hole in the bag (for plausible-denial reasons - "Oh my, the bag was ripped, and I just sampled a few"), all the while assuring myself that I would eat only one.
After a few more "samples," I decided to replace the entire bag before my husband noticed.
I begged off door duty on Halloween night, offering instead to take my son around the neighborhood in his cow costume. That way, contact with the forbidden fruit would be minimal.
Later, I realized how low I'd sunk when I began to take an interest in my son's goody bag.
"Say, Ben, how about a Milky Way bar?"
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