The Twelve Days of Christmas

I knew it would be trouble as soon as I saw the box on our front door step. Three evil words. Fannie May Candies. I was toast.



I opened the box and read the words on the beautifully wrapped container of confections - "The Twelve Days of Christmas." It might as well have been labeled the Twelve Pounds of Christmas. And who was the perpetrator of such temptation? Saboteurs, really, disguised as best friends. The kind of friends that have led us down other dark paths since God brought them into our lives. The kind that will keep my man out all night lurking for gators. The kind that blows up boats. The Pastor Friend kind.



It took about 10 seconds to open up the Twelve days of Christmas and inhale the first piece of perfection. Divine dark chocolate with resplendent raspberry filling. I was complete. A new reason to live, really. So I began to plot.



The Twelve Days of Christmas would remain in the dining room out of the normal pattern of traffic in our home. It would have to be intentional to visit this box, therefore I would have a greater chance of experiencing it all for myself. Out of sight, out of mind. Not really selfish considering that Scott is always asking me to remove temptation from his path in his quest for better dietary control, right?



Three pieces were devoured in the two minutes it took Scott to come and inspect the gift for himself. He did not buy my story that it came, oddly, with three pieces missing.



I bargained with myself that I would only eat the dark chocolates. No one else loves the dark side like I do and dark chocolate is healthy for you, isn't it after all? It took only the first four days of Christmas for me to consume every piece of dark chocolate. I was growing physically and spiritually attached to this box.



I had no option but to move on to the milk chocolate. Four more days. All gone. I wasn't even sorry. I didn't even know who I was anymore.



All that were left were the foil wrapped chocolate Santa's. Turns out that I had saved the best for last. Creamy, delicious, fine milk chocolates artfully formed into little Santa Claus's. Finally I understood the true meaning of Christmas. A clue that I was in trouble was that I had taken to visiting "the box" at night, in the dark, alone. Frodo didn't protect the ring like I protected this box. Desperate. I was completely prepared to tell Scott that my precious Santa's were in fact, dark chocolate and he wouldn't like them. Truth be told, he would have gone nuts over these Santa's. They were exactly his brand of heroin. But he never knew. He never had a chance with "the box."


On the Twelfth day of Christmas, I took my last hit. It was over. Regret was instant. Reality came crashing in. What had I done?





I am back on the wagon, I mean, treadmill. Chicken, rice, salad. Chicken, rice, salad. Run, walk, lift, stretch. Nothing happening. No downturn in the economy of my personal numbers. No happy mornings as I step on the truthometer, the scale.





Even so, I fondly remember the good days, the Twelve Days of Christmas. I know that the evils of the holiday can and will be atoned for with good habits. Just in time for Valentine's Day!