Help Me, Reese's-Cup-Kenobi; You're My Only Hope

I'm not really a candy-loving person, you know.  I got fat on pizza and cheeseburgers, not Snickers.  I can go for months without giving a Milky Way so much as a second glance.  Most of the time, I don't even push my cart down the candy aisle.  Besides, I have body issues so severe they've long ago passed the insanity line, and whenever I look at a package of M&M's, all I can see is a mental image of me with little lumps of candy all over me, just under my skin, with the orange, red, yellow, and blue colors just faintly showing through, the whole "thing"  looking for all the world not unlike an extra from Alien, with little monsters ready to burst forth and kill someone at any moment.  No, I do not, ordinarily, care for candy or anything "sweet," actually.

That being the case, I'm always amazed at myself when, about twice a year, I get an urge for Reese's Cups that's so strong I will drive eight miles to WalMart at three in the morning to buy. . . not one, not two, and not three, either, but FOUR packages.  And I will bring them home and sit in my kitchen as the sun comes up, and I will eat them ALL, washing them down with a glass of cold milk to make the whole orgy "healthy."

You do remember that Reese's Cups come two in a package, right?  That's eight big chunks of candy.  Rumor has it that on occasion there will be a special on the huge four-in-a-package, in which case I will still buy four and eat them all.  Do the math.

Then, I'll go to bed feeling as guilty as if I'd knocked over the corner liquor store, and I will vow that NEVER AGAIN, blah blah blah, and I will go another six or seven months without being interested in any kind of candy again.

Today at the college, my department head pulled me aside and asked if I was feeling all right, as apparently my clothes were "hanging on me."  It wasn't a compliment, but my "issues" are so pathetic that I fairly glowed through the rest of the day, picturing how good I might look in my coffin. I've been working hard at losing weight since last April, when I stepped on my doctor's scales and saw that immensely large number.  By BlogHer in July, I'd dropped twenty pounds, and right now, in October, I've lost 42 pounds.  My goal is forty more.  Yes, I was THAT LARGE.  

Halloween is fast approaching.  Reese's Cups are going to be on sale for el cheapo the day after.  I have a small request:  Would someone please come over and lock me in my room for a few days during that candy sale?  I haven't had any peanut butter and chocolatey goodness since last Easter, and I greatly fear for my self-control - and my diabetes - once that "75% off" sign goes up over the "danger aisle."  

I have no fears about the Halloween stash in the foyer, awaiting the local spooks and ghouls.  Suckers and Smarties and jelly beans were never in any danger from me; I'm looking for Mr. Goodbar, not Mr. Cellophane.

My name is Jane, and I am a Reeseaholic.


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