In a statement of flagrant contradiction to the widely-accepted mantra of my gender, I confess to being someone who would rather eat a mango for dessert than a piece of chocolate cake. No, really, I say that without so much as a trace of snarkiness and I have never been diagnosed with a mental illness.
It’s just that life with a metabolism as efficient as a clogged drain has taught me to look beyond processed sugar to satisfy my sweet tooth. Thus, I have truly come to be one with all things fresh and peeled.
So when Krispy Kreme came to town and people pined in line for hours for their free doughnut while they waited to place their orders, I didn’t feel the slightest draw to waste my precious time and expand my waist. In fact, I felt a faintly smug pang of pity for these crowd-followers who demonstrated such a blatant lack of self control.
Indeed, I resisted even going in there for a good long while without so much as a smidge of remorse.
Armed with the conviction that these completely nutritionally-devoid confections were no match for my iron resolve, I felt absolutely safe to go in one morning on my way to work, and pick up a box for my team to say thank you for helping me out on a project.
And, just in case there was any danger of slipping, I casually reminded myself on the way in that when they asked if I’d like my free doughnut I would simply say no thanks.
I opened the door and the very air in the place seduced my nostrils with a sugary smog. I went to the back of the line and ogled the assembly line in fascination. As we meandered along the curved splashguard, I could see the raw dough plopping into the boiling oil, all pale and full of potential as the doughnuts hatched, bobbing to the surface like newborn ducklings learning to swim.
I eyed one in particular as the conveyor belt expertly flipped it onto its back, exposing its evenly deepened, golden brown belly. I reassured myself that my interest was merely journalistic in nature and that I had no attachment to the tanned, puffing pastry.
The line was moving quite quickly and I saw my doughnut get pulled under the glaze waterfall, emerging seconds later with a smooth coating of shiny, opaque icing.
Before I even had a chance to blink, a seemingly disembodied hand had scooped up my doughnut with a piece of wax paper and thrust it, hot and gooey and incredibly soft, into my unsuspecting paw.
Reeling from the shock of abrupt ownership of this confection melting in my palm, I held my ground. It would be rude to throw it out right in front of them. Option B seemed more practical: just wait for my box and then add it to the mix.
As I reached the front of the line, I heard the shake in my voice as I procured 2 dozen of these delicacies; imperceptible to the cashier who didn’t know me, yet I recognized the telltale signs of cracks beginning to show. The sultry pastry in my hand was rapidly sending tingling sensations of warmth up into my arm.
I stood back to wait for my name and leaned against a pole for support, breathing a little shallowly. The allure of this doughnut was starting to overwhelm my senses and I heard the alarm bells go off in my head. I couldn’t remember when last I’d succumbed to one of these on the food table at work, but I had never before held such a fresh, flawless specimen in my own clutches.
Suddenly the noise in the background faded away and there were only two of us in this world: my doughnut and me. And I knew with everything I had and everything I was, that I had to have it, right there, right then. This need was bigger than both of us, and responding with a primal urge to this culinary kismet, my eyelids fluttered closed as I frantically raised it to my mouth and
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