Candy Man

 "Music is my mistress," Duke Ellington said, and with equal conviction I say "Sugar is my Sancho". 

That sneaky bastard has found a way into my life when I need him the least. I'm trying to develop a baby here, trying to be a good wife. But he finds his way back in.

 Every day I say to myself, it's over. We're through. He's in my thoughts when I wake up, often has been in my thoughts and dreams throughout the night. I move through my day telling myself it's day one of "recovery". We are over. 

 Then, he calls. Today for example, on an honest errand at the mall, how did he even find me? "Hey, I'm at the Sweet Shack, meet me there for a minute. Your husband's not around, we can just talk." The next thing I know I'm walking around Nordsrtom's sneaking Sweet Tarts out of my bag into my mouth jealously guarding my bag full of lollipops and mega dum-dums. Damn you, Sugar. 

 As I recover (that means pass out on the couch from a sugar crash) I sluggishly remember all the nastiness that comes with sugar consumption, besides fat, the headaches and for me anxiety,  nausea and even mild depression. Why can't I remember that before I candy myself into sickness. I'll tell you why, it's because sugar- with a voice much like Antonio Banderas- says, "This time will be different, Bunny, I won't hurt you. Look how sweet, imagine ze flavor...."

 And just like an affair I'm hiding all evidence from my husband before he gets home. Oh shame. Oh huge box of cereal I just bought. Oh fruit roll-ups.

Oh Pregnancy! I never liked candy before!