God, I hate her. She drives me crazy and I swear I’m kicking her out of my life for good. And this time I mean it!
Rats, mice, moths, flies and other pests are having a banner year, Covid has shut down most forms of recreation, and I’ve been escaping stress with sugary treats. For the record, I love the classics—pie, cookies, cake—but my favorites are those Magnum ice cream bars, the kind with a gooey caramel layer under the chocolate shell. Whoever invented that treat should be hailed as a genius—then promptly tarred and feathered.
I love sugar, but I hate her too. I get hooked, gain weight and then lose the energy I need to get through the day. At my age, sugar is poised like a leopard, eager to pounce on the last vestiges of my youth. The beast is so close I can smell her breath… it smells like… my mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls. No wonder she has me in her claws.
“Sorry, Sugar, I’ve got a thing for kale now and we should go our separate ways.”
That’s what I’m dying to tell her. But, man oh man, when the good times are rolling and she and I are out on the town, having crème brûlée, I am in heaven. Why can’t she just stay at her place while I stay at mine? We can get together, maybe share a chocolate malted, but then she needs to leave me alone. With all these pests infesting our mountain, I’ve got enough monkeys on my back.
As I write this, I’ve broken my sugar addiction and she and I are getting along fine—she sends her love—but it’s Saturday night and she’s on her way over. I sure hope she didn’t make a pit stop at Dairy Queen and whisper “peanut buster parfait, baby” into that drive-through microphone. Once I start, I just can’t stop.
Oh well. A little taste won’t hurt. Right?