I Plead No Contest

I ask myself a simple, straight forward question: Do you want to be fit or do you want to eat that Nutty Bar?

Nutty Bars. Temptation straight from Dante’s Third Level of Hell where Gluttons are consigned to spend eternity perpetually unsatisfied.

What is it about Nutty Bars? I never touch Swiss Rolls, Oatmeal Pies, or Hostess Cupcakes. A nearly full container of Moose Tracks sits in our freezer, untouched by moi. I dared to buy Keebler cookies -- baked by none other than the elves themselves. Did I attack like a ravenous Cerberus? No, I am the very model of moderation.

But then there are Nutty Bars.

I tell myself I’ll be strong. I whisper, You can handle it this time. It’s Lent, remember? Self-control and all that. You are bigger than this!

Folly, sheer folly.

One of the first steps in growth in holiness is a simple adage: Know thyself. Where Nutty Bars are concerned, I know this self all too well. Nutty Bars have company in their uncanny ability to overcome every last shred of temperance. In the face of Milanos and Girl Scout Thin Mints, I am equally unrestrained. Oreos could go either way. On an especially stressful day, I lower my standards. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Kit Kats sometimes fit the bill quite nicely.

You know, I got away with this for a long, long time. Then I turned forty. My eyes went fast and so did my metabolism. While my trusty readers take care of my declining vision, the muffin top that has arrived courtesy of Nutty Bars demands pesky things like self-control and exercise.

Ugh.