C is for cookie, and that’s good enough for me. It’s better than good, it’s my heart’s desire right now, my obsession, my one and only true thought and my demon.
There’s only an hour and 15 minutes to go before I head home from work. I haven’t taken a lunch break yet, though I ate my sandwich and applesauce about four hours ago (diabetes has its occasional perks; I’m the only one allowed to eat inside the actual office). It’s really, technically too late to take lunch, yet I know I could hop the elevator downstairs and walk right into the built-in bakery/café in the basement of my building and buy a cookie and be back in a flash.
I could buy five crispy, soft, thick half-dollar-size chocolate chip cookies that are really, really good. Or I could buy one jumbo, giant toffee cookie that would feed a small village and tastes incredible, thereby satiating my cookie urges for at least three days.
I might normally indulge. But not only am I in carb-counting mode, I’m in calorie-counting mode. Carb-wise, I could bolus for the cookie, but then it would throw off my sugars for dinner and I’d be a mess for the rest of the night. Calorie-wise, I’m trying to lose a few pounds and I’ve been succeeding, but now I’ve hit my plateau and I need to stop the cookies or I’ll be stuck forever in the half-way there zone.
So I’m not going to buy that cookie. Even though I really want to.
And what does this all mean for you, my gentle readers? It means I’ve just managed to kill another ten minutes of not buying a cookie. Only an hour and five more minutes to go. (Sorry for luring you in with the hope of an insightful entry, then using you for my own horrible purposes of killing time.)
As always, more to come (but NO COOKIE, not even a C)…