Damn you, Goldfish

Oh Goldfish, why am I so drawn to you? So many days you have thwarted my best intentions to eat sensible, regular meals with your crunchy, salty, cheesy goodness. Sure, I wake up and start my day with some nice fruit salad and some eggs, and as I am making my plans to have a nutritionally balanced, produced-based lunch in a few hours, my offspring request a bowl of you. Pouring out their little bowls of joy, jealous that their hummingbird metabolisms allow them to eat you and french fries with abandon without the associated self-flagellation, a few of you make your escape attempt and jump onto the counter. "It's just four of us", you whisper, "Go ahead." So I jam you in my mouth, telling myself that is all I will eat, but as usually happens, I start with four and wind up, twenty minutes later, head tilted back, mouth agape, shaking the last crumbs out of the pouch into my orange crumb-coated mouth.

Alas, my willpower crumbles with one glance at your smiley visage. Bloated and thirsty, I throw your package away, swearing to myself that if I can not control myself around you then perhaps we should break up. I hear your mocking laughter, Goldfish. You know, like divorced parents, we have to peacefully coexist for the good of the kids. I know, I know, it's my issue. Perhaps if I committed to a small bowl instead of trying to eliminate you from my life entirely, I wouldn't find myself eating you in such quantities, as if I were going to the electric chair. But we all know moderation has never been my strong suit.

So I will try, Goldfish, to resist your siren song as I open up your plain-on-the-outside-but-disco-shiny-on-the-inside-package. You will not throw me off track and force me to eat such a nutritionally void meal, standing at the counter, ever again. I will forget this ever happened and move on.

But I hear you, sniggering from the garbage can, whispering, "Pepperidge Farm remembers..."