|This unsuspecting bastard must have nude photos of me.|
(rest of room) "Hi Sean."
(waves) "I don't even know when or where it started. I mean it is rooted in the pressures of parenting. About a year ago we were told that my child's aversion to eating foods that were not quadruple processed was a potential problem and we needed something that could help offset that and, well, some decisions were made for which we're all paying now (voice cracks).
It started out simple enough . . . just four ingredients and nutrition far better than most of the rest of the snacks we could pretend were candy bars and there were enough flavors and varieties that she didn't get sick of them and a low enough price point that there was no reason not to grab them.
(lower, whispery voice - as if echoing to myself) No reason not to grab them.
So, for months, they were just her snack. I'd keep 'em on hand and she would eat them every now and again and if she ate 85% of them (depending on the flavor) I might finish them. And before long it got to the point where I would encourage her to leave leftovers. Before long I was "splitting them" with her - promising to open a second as soon as she finished her half of the first one and then . . . a few weeks ago . . . the floodgates were opened.
(eyes swell with tears) I was buying groceries and there was a special on my personal favorite - the Peanut Butter and Jelly - and I picked up ten. They would last a few weeks, I thought/promised internally. And each morning when I'd get back from my run I would grab one and eat it. And then I found myself eyeballing them at other times during the day. I left work on a Thursday to drive and buy more and had to go to a second store - the first was sold out - and I wound out coming back late to a meeting . . . and I didn't care. When you're a junkie, you just. don't. care.
During yesterday's grocery run, I bought twenty of them. And those were just for me . . . I bought the standard quantity and variety for my daughter.
I ate one on the drive home. I ate another on the way back out the door - 45 minutes later - for more errands. And that is when I realized I had a problem. This is when I admitted I had a problem.
I sat in my car and thought about how this would end . . . I will be (voice cracks) homeless. Destitute, selling my body and its orifices for sticky, gooey, formed date bars. A daughter who would not speak to me for indulging in her treats will haunt my cold, open aired dreams. An overdrawn checking account and a passenger seat baseboard full of empty wrappers will be my only reminder of the real costs of this obsession. Perennially soft stool will plague me. Anguish be overcome me.
But I'm going to fight it. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One urge at a time. I'm going to win this battle - with your help.
Unless you guys want to go grab a Larabar together.