The most horrible thing just happened to me and I’ve got to share it with somebody (or several thousand somebodies): Every day around 3, I leave my home office to get coffee. I know I can brew some here, but when you work three feet from where you sleep, sometimes it’s just nice to get out of the house. So I take Winnie the Wonderdog and off we go to Starbucks or, more recently, Dunkin Donuts. I don’t know why or how or what, but ever since I’ve been off those damn antidepressants, Starbucks just doesn’t hold the same magic. (Don’t ask.)
So we go to Dunkin today and I pull into the drive thru. Once at the speaker, I yell into it, “One medium french vanilla with light cream and one Splenda please.” The clerk repeats my order back to me, which I can’t understand for a variety of reasons, but since I prefer to deal in good faith, I say, “Yes, that’s it.” And pull around to the window.
As I did, the craving for 8,000 Dunkin Munchkins overwhelmed me like a blast of tear gas. Like too much spandex. It was excruciating.
My body was screaming, “GIVE ME A MUNCHKIN. NOW, YOU *@(&$!!!$$@@@*”
Now, I’m not sure if it’s the 800 months on Jenny Craig for the return of a 12-pound weight loss (thank you middle age) or the fact that it’s that time of the month (thank you middle age) or the fact that I just wanted a Munchkin because they’re cheap and, dammit, they’re good and I can (thank you middle age).
But I wanted one. More than anything. And I mean anything. (Think three-carat diamond, a double-thick crust pizza from Giordanos, long silky blonde hair, a 12-book JK Rowling-esque book deal, long limbs, nail polish that drys in a minute, a closet full of Butterfly Dropout tank tops [preferably V-necks], and a lifetime supply of free Botox.)
Suddenly, I felt Bette, my Jenny Craig counselor, perched upon my shoulder. “Don’t do it, sweetie. If you lose 1/18 of a pound this week, you can lose 100 pounds by 2040. Granted, you’ll be 80, but you’ll be gorgeous!”
And then I felt the angry deprived fat Jewish girl who’ll never have thin knees in this lifetime saying, “What’s the difference, chubbo. You’re married now. Get a friggin munchkin. Who’s gonna know?”
I look over at the dog. I know her vote. And then it dawns on me. I’ll get three. Three lil’ Dunkin Munchkins–two for Winnie and one to satisfy my now Godzilla-sized craving. Who’s THAT gonna hurt?
The nice fellow leans through the window to hand me my coffee. Excellent timing. I pay him and say, “You know what? Can I also get just THREE Dunkin Munchkins? Anything but chocolate.” Chocolate can kill a dog and I don’t want to take the chance.
He smiles at me–that “I like you” smile. That “I get you” smile. That “I know what you REALLY want” smile. That “I can see you naked from the waist up and like what I see” smile. (Go figure.)
And within a few minutes, he’s leaning through the window to hand me the goods. I take it, thank him, thank the universe, roll up my window, and immediately notice that the bag feels unusually heavy for just three little hole-sized rolls of breading.
I look inside. There they are. The sight of it–of them–worse than finding Wendy Manuel and Tammy Levin together at Pizza Boy off Cottman Ave. when I was 16–after they’d both told me they were “busy” that day because they “had the flu” or “some strange stomach thing.”
Talk about feeling rejected, dejected, deprived, betrayed and panic stricken. There were at least 25 DUNKIN MUNCHKINS in that little paper satchel. And there I was, in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts, alone with my mutt, staring at the traffic on 611, counting the hours til my next weigh in, having a come-to-Jesus talk with myself. It was a pivotal moment. Substantial. My choice could set in motion a course I didn’t even want to think about. (My ass, a farm tractor, hard to tell the difference. You get the picture?)
I look at Winnie. She looks at me and I begin to wonder how many Munchkins I can feed her WITHOUT killing her from too much sugar–and how quickly I can get them into her mouth. Better hers than mine. (After all, isn’t that what dogs are for? Someone once told me dogs were here to help us carry our burdens. But what about our cellulite? Does that count?)
At that point, I don’t have the luxury of time. My resolve is fading. Treating them like small balls of fire, I start tossing the Munchkins at her. “Here you go girl.” For every four I throw at her, I keep one for myself. And fortunately, I only wind up eating three.
Unfortunately, the dog is looking a little peaked.
Note to all the Dunkin Donut Clerks (especially those reading from the store on 611, right across the street from Target, a few miles downroad from the entrance to the turnpike): When blue-eyed, redheaded customers with white furry dogs and dazed expressions ask for three Dunkin Munchkins, chances are they want 100. So only give them two.
More later. And until next time.