Singing for a smaller me

My office is full of food pushers.

They're so very well meaning, and any number of them are on diets of one sort or another - yet I don't think they understand the battle I face with sugar-y baked goods. When the two chocolate cakes appeared on the breakroom table I didn't bat an eye:

Then there were the brownies (which fortunately didn't tempt me since they were covered in caramel. Yuck, yuck, yuck.):




And then there was the German Chocolate Cake (oh, sweet heaven, someone eat it before I drag the rest of that cake to my desk):




And, today, cookies. Yes, cookies. The bane of my freaking existence: cookies. Chocolate Chip Cookies. My co-worker who made them says "Oh, they're supposed to be healthy. I made them with whole wheat flour. *insert giggle here* and tons of butter. It's the Holidays, you're allowed to indulge. They're only about 150 calories each." Each. One hundred and fifty freaking calories EACH. Yeah, they look so innocent and sweet, but they're evil, evil I tell you, eeeee-vvvviiilll:




Here's the dialogue that goes through my head whenever I see one of these ohsotempting treats:

Bad me: Oh, look someone brought in a treat.

Good me: *groan*

Bad me: That looks tasty!

Good me: sarcasticallyYeah, it'll be even tastier on my ass.

Bad me: One tiny slice won't hurt.

Good me: Yeah, it won't just be one tiny slice.

Bad me: Cross my heart, hope to die, just one tiny slice! Pleeeeaaaasssseeee!!!

Good me: Nope.

Bad me: Pretty please!!!!!!

Good me: No.

Bad me: Pretty please with sugar on top!!!!

Good me: No. No. No.

Bad me: *gets that look on face like Bilbo Baggins had when he couldn't touch the Ring* RAWR!!!!! CAKE NOW!!!!!

Good me: Walking away now.

Today, however, I could *not* walk away from those cookies. Even as I headed back to my desk on the other side of the office I heard them calling my name. I started typing away, but still was thinking about those damn cookies. Finally, I started weighing the pros and cons. Do I eat a cookie? Do I keep on ignoring it? Do I drink something? It finally dawned on me: Compromise. I *can* have one cookie. Just one. Not five. Not ten. Just one.




There it is. Sitting on my desk. Waiting for me to eat lunch. And I plan on enjoying that cookie. That little treat that I *can* allow myself to have because if I don't . . . well, for me, if I don't eat that cookie there could be problems. Bad Me can only be pacified for so long or Bad Me might go to the store, buy a bag of Keebler Soft Baked Chocolate Chip Cookies and eat the whole thing.