My greatest love affair is about to end.
And all because of a damn fundraising drive for my kids’ day-care centre.
DAMN YOU CHOCOLATE!
I don’t know why I agreed to taking the damn things in the first place. It’s a heavy carton of 14 chocolate boxes, and bugger me if I’m going to cart them around with me in the car and try to offload them to every friend I visit. Why, oh why, am I not more assertive? Alas, alack, I think I’m just one of those people who cannot say n…. ehem, who cannot say n…. damn it!
So instead I am forced, FORCED, I tell you, to eat all the damn things myself. The Maltesers were first to go, then the M&Ms, and now I’m almost done with the celebration-size Mars Bars. Which makes me feel so much better, knowing that I can successfully ingest a kilo of chocolate 25g at a time, thereby cancelling out the calories.
And now of course, the unthinkable has happened…I’m over chocolate. It’s finished. I’m done.
Just last night, I sat it down.
‘Listen. We need to talk. It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve just…I’ve changed. I just don’t think this is working anymore. I need space.’
‘And to be honest you make me kinda sick.’
I think it took it rather well. Sure, we had a last-minute break-up rendezvous, just for old-time’s sake, but never again. How could I go back?
The choice is clear – give it up now or else be found years from now spread-eagled, obese and with chocolate marks around my cherry lips. And no, that’s not a look that’s huge in Milan.
“Here lies Jenny. She lived, she laughed, she ate. Piggy wiggedy wig wig.”
It’s so over.
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