I haven’t had any Halloween candy in the house. In the past I’ve bought bags and bags and bags ahead of time. Not such a good idea. Because when that monthly sweet-chocolate-I-must-have-something-and-have-it-now craving comes by those bags become dust in the wind. Maybe you can have just one or two of those (puny) Fun Sized candies. But I can not. To me, it ain’t Fun Sized until the whole damn bag is gone and I am hunched over writhing in pain. Now that’s fun! Well, not really…
I decided that this year we would have no candy in this house until Halloween. So I went out to run my errands this morning and dropped off a script for Christopher at our local CVS and decided to pick up our candy. I stood there in the center of the aisle, lost, dazed and way, way, way, too confused. First I started grabbing all the stuff I don’t like. I don’t want to be left with gobs of ooey gooey goodness. I’m not good with temptation. So I grabbed some icky stuff. Then I got disappointed in myself. I can’t do that. We’re new to the ‘hood. We want people to come to our house, not run right by it. So I tossed all the icky stuff back onto the shelves. Besides, I know myself and I would end up eating the icky stuff too. Just because. It’s there.
Up and down the aisle I paced, wandering, querying, picking up packages and putting them back. I should have sent Don. This was one decision I was finding particularly difficult. And it continued for about 15 minutes. Bags go in the cart. Bags come out of the cart. In and out. In and out. Finally, I said to hell with it and just walked away with a few bags of really good stuff. I have m&ms, both regular and peanut. I have Reese’s cups and Whoppers and Milk Duds. I have Junior Mints. I have Nestle Crunch bars and something else. I have $50 worth of candy. $50 worth of friggin‘ candy! How absolutely ridiculous is that? But I want to be prepared. I want to have enough candy to pass out. Maybe we won’t get any Trick or Treaters at all… maybe we will run out of candy… I have no idea what will happen but I would rather have enough than not enough. I just don’t want any leftovers. At all.
Which brings me to another topic. My scale. It’s broke. Really is broken. I have this fancy digital thing I got when I first got pregnant with Rebecca eons ago. Well, I stepped on it the other day and the reading was off. Way off 10 pounds off. Of course I would love say I weigh what the numbers said I did but I would be lying and fooling myself. So I got on the scale and it said the same thing. I did this a few times. And then when I got on the 26th time it added 20 pounds! Just like that! I jumped off the scale and screamed! Yessir I screamed. Like I had seen a tarantula crawling by. And then I got back on 20 more times and the numbers wouldn’t budge. But they budged when I stepped on the 51st time. Back to that original reading. I know it’s all wrong but I like it! Damn, stupid, @^%#! scale!
I’ve hit middle age, that’s what I am thinking. I may never see the waistline I had in my early 30s. I haven’t seen it since Alexander was born. The kid destroyed me I’m telling you! I’m sure my midsection is what it is because I bore three children. But I have more excess skin on me than a Sharpei puppy. And I am blaming it on Alexander. And because I am getting old. (And, according to my husband, crotchety to boot!) But I have friends who have 6 pack abs and they are my age! Ok, well maybe the fact that my treadmill has more dust on it that in my bagless vacuum… and maybe my running shoes have been missing since Clinton left office… and maybe those m&ms aren’t really helping… but still!
So you know what I am going to do? I am going to shimmy into a pair of Spanx and grab myself a bag of Twix and eat them on my broken scale!