Every year in my house, it starts with the Halloween candy and continues on the downhill trend until January 2. My husband and I buy a seat on the high calorie train to future diet Hell and with the shout, “ALL ABOARD!” we’re off and overindulging. First stop on Halloween night – my thighs.
My daughter arrives home from trick or treating with 114 pounds of candy packed into her plastic pumpkin. After she pours out her sugary treasures on the carpet, my husband hovers over her like a vulture standing over its prey. “What cha got there, honey … huh, huh, huh?” he pants.
“Daaaad,” she whines. “Please! I haven’t even taken inventory yet!”
After she falls into a sugar-induced coma a few hours later, my husband and I creep into her room and grab her pumpkin. We quietly close her door and take the pumpkin to the kitchen table where we dump its contents. “I get the Babe Ruths and Milky Ways,” I say.
“I’ll take the Butterfingers and Twizzlers,” he adds.
As we both munch, we start to feel guilty. “I’ll put back one Babe Ruth,” I whisper.
“I don’t need all these Twizzlers,” he says as he throws one back into the pumpkin.
“You have a chocolate mustache,” I tell him as I lean over and gently wipe his face with my Babe Ruth wrapper.
“I didn’t want to say anything, but you have caramel all over the front of your blouse,” he says as he lovingly scrapes it off.
After an hour of eating, we realize the pumpkin is half empty. “Uh-oh,” we both say simultaneously.
“I think I have some sugar-free candy in here somewhere,” I say as I rustle through the cupboards and find a few that I immediately toss into the pumpkin.
“Do you think she enjoys Slim Fast snack bars?” my husband asks as he throws a couple on the table.
“Oh, that reminds me, I forgot about these rice cakes I bought last summer when I saw myself in my swimming suit for the first time,” I add as I pull them out of the back of the pantry. “They’re chocolate-flavored!”
“Boy, that was a tough day, wasn’t it?” my husband commented. “You cried for hours all alone on your towel at the lake.”
“Don’t bring it up,” I said through the fourth Babe Ruth I had just stuffed into my mouth. “I might need therapy again.”
I held up the now full pumpkin so my husband could see inside. “Better now?”
“I don’t think she’ll suspect a thing,” he said.
We crept back into her room and left the pumpkin next to her bed.
Later, as we lay in bed like two beached whales on a sugar high, I said, “I have a stomach-ache and I feel like I’m about to give birth to 20 pounds of chocolate.”
“Don’t even talk about chocolate or I’ll throw up right here, right now,” my husband groaned.
This is only the beginning. You should see us with pumpkin pie and whipped cream.