It’s All Good?

The store at the dairy is pitifully small. Not a lot of extraneous items or impulse buys; just good, clean milk, cheese and various other dairy products. Usually I am able to run in, go right to the refrigerator, grab a gallon of milk, pay and be out of there in under one minute. Another reason why I like going to the dairy.

Tonight, though, I caught a glimpse of something that stopped me short. The Pink Cookie. It is a gargantuan sugar-fest, this cookie, as big as my hand, over half an inch thick with about an eighth inch thick of bawdy neon-pink frosting and sprinkles. It is a sugar fanatic’s best dream and a diabetics worst nightmare. Standing at the register, it took me all of about three seconds to give in to the lure of the pink. I had to have one.

I was introduced to these cookies about 20 years ago when I worked with “Granny B’s” daughter who would peddle them to us, her co-workers. It was then that I became addicted to the sugar-coated sin. I remember lining up with my other salivating friends as our eyes glazed over while we anticipated running to our separate corners to shovel in the massive treat as quickly as possible. And woe be to the one who came too late to get a cookie because no one would share theirs.

I rushed out to the car with my treasure, relishing the moment when I tore into the clear cellophane wrapper and the smell of sugar-sweetness wafted through the air. My mouth watered. I trembled with excitement. It was like Christmas morning! Oh! And that first bite? Oh! Heaven! My teeth sunk through the smooth frosting and into the crumbly-soft-as-cake cookie and I closed my eyes in bliss.

The heaven lasted for the three minutes – okay, three seconds – it took me to gobble it down, all the while ignoring the information blaring at me from the cellophane. I wouldn’t even look there because I knew what it said. That was the reason I had broken up with my love in the first place. These Pink Cookies are really, really bad for you.

See, way back when these cookies came fresh from Granny B’s kitchen, sometimes still warm, in pretty baskets, underneath fancy cloths. There were no cellophane wrappers to give away all the secrets. In the beginning, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it was a far from healthy treat, but ignored the internal warnings. Like, when my jaw started aching as the sugar settled into my joints, my vision became wavy, I felt dizzy and a horrific band of pain would strap itself around my skull as my blood sugar level spiked through the roof.

So, I ate The Pink Cookie tonight, almost without breathing, ignoring the bad news and feeling guilty for only a split second. I am paying the price, though, I admit. All those lovely body symptoms have come back, full force and seemingly worse, perhaps because I am an addict who just fell off the wagon after almost four years.

I am thinking that I should somehow figure out how to make this an object lesson. Like, everything that looks good is not necessarily good for you. Or, sometimes it is better to judge a cookie by its cover. Or…

Nah. For a moment I felt like a young girl and I enjoyed my cookie. I feel happy about that, even though I feel quite ill now. A natural consequence for a knowingly unwise choice, I suppose.

At least the milk was healthy!