Every Friday at my place of work, we have Treat Day. My favourite day of the week. Well, it used to be. I now call it Torture Day. Every Friday, I feel real guilt. Over the years I became the de facto guardian of Treat Day. Now, I have now become everything I fought so hard against.
The baked goods. Marone! Brownies. Cheesecake. Cookies. Chips. The spread on Fridays is something to behold. There is a sign up sheet on the fridge. Everyone takes their turn. Old Adam, was never shy about voicing his discontent if someone brought in something that was nutritious. "This isn't a treat." Heaven forbid you bring a vegetable in. Publicly shunned. A steadfast rule was developed: Fruit should not part of any dessert. What is a date anyway? Raisins. Hate them. The thing I hate about those SOBs raisins, is that they look like chocolate chips. You think you are about to get that much closer to God by biting into a delicious chocolate chip cookie and shit. Raisins. So deceptive. One guy brought in a bunch of boxes of wagon wheels. They were expired. There was such disdain. The audacity.
Now every Friday morning I dread my entrance into the staff room. Oh great, a giant bowl of M and Ms. I used to be the judge, jury and executioner. Now every Friday becomes a test. I was eating my wrap and I looked up and there were a dozen donuts. “Hey buddy, remember us. Oh yeah, we’re just covered in sprinkles. We won’t mind if you eat one of us.” Damn. One time the staff room was empty. There was a bag of one-bite brownies. I opened the bag and just breathed in the fumes. I was free basing like I was Richard Pryor. I didn’t eat one because I know I wouldn’t be able to stop. I still haven’t found that space where I can do things in moderation. I really want to get there one day because I miss my old friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment