It’s Friday night. I’m so tired I can’t decide if I want to cry, go to bed, get drunk, or watch a movie. However, none of those options are appealing to me. I must be getting old or something.
Here I am, at 10 to 10 pm on a Friday night, glued to my recliner. It’s as if an unseen force has tied me down to this chair and I can’t move. I really need to invest in a tracker to see how many steps I do at the office today. It was a busy week and I’m feeling it tonight.
My sleep has also been shit. I can’t remember when I had more than three hours of sleep.
With the help of my “driver” and friend Wally, he picked up my groceries for me and drove me home after work. I had a hankering for a pot roast like we used to eat at family dinners on Sunday nights. Even Wally remembered driving me to the family home.
It’s funny the things that we miss. But here I was at work, suddenly craving a slightly pink slab of roast beef, with a side of roasted potatoes and cauliflower. And popovers. How I miss my mum’s infamous popovers with gravy.
And her English Trifles. Which of course, to her, they were just Trifles. Because, you know, the whole British thing.
I was all revved up to get the roast in the roasting pan and get cracking on dinner. But the moment I got in the door, I changed into my sweats. Put the groceries away. And sat in my black faux leather recliner. I haven’t really budged since.
The sad thing is. I had ordered a few Cinnabons from the bakery for me and my dad to share this weekend. Only, instead of giving me the four pack that I ordered – they subbed it for a twelve pack.
I’ve already eaten two of them. I’m already feeling a little sick from that sugary high. But damn it. It’s ALL I can think about. Knowing that they’re there. Sitting on my counter. Waiting to be plucked. Licked. And eaten. All 10 of them. Those sweet, buttery, juicy buns that are only about 400 calories each.
So, it doesn’t matter that I walked probably 20,000 steps this week. Because it all went down the drain with those two buns I had. But damn it. They were so good. And sometimes – you just have to go for it.
I’ve been sitting here debating on whether I should watch a movie. Binge an old t.v. show or just go to bed. I’m so tired right now that I can’t even move. My brain, I think might even be broken. Or maybe it’s just too distracted by the sweet, sweet, taste of Cinnabon icing.
And so, here I am. At 10 pm on a Friday night, silently cursing at a harmless box of delicious and tempting pastries sitting on my counter. Wishing that I hadn’t even heard of a thing called Cinnabon.
No. I mustn’t. Really. I shouldn’t. I can’t. Three. That would be… simply… way. Too. Much.
Yes, I mean, a person really only needs just one Cinnabon. Right? I mean, two is pushing it. But three?
No, I think I’ll go cut up some strawberries or an orange and snack on that. Yes. And maybe I’ll put on some nice relaxing music and write a little bit.
No, wait. What’s this? I can’t control it. This urge. It’s… too strong.
The smell of the cinnamon from those blasted (thanks mom) Cinnabons – it’s too powerful. It’s too strong.
I must fight it… I must.
But — I can’t…
They’re calling my name.
I hear you Cinnabons. I hear you. You delicious and sugary snacks that will only rot my teeth faster and go straight to my thighs.
All right, dear sweet Cinnabon.
I have no self control.
Here’s Family Guy – a scene I can relate to.