Thank god that divine nightmare's over.
And by that, I do mean the box of incredibly tasty and pleasurable Godiva chocolates I received as a gift and of which 44.4% I consumed singlehandedly on Christmas Day.
Well, I no longer need fret about resisting the 55.6% that kept calling my name, if you get my drift.
Actually, one gargantuan piece with the pecans and caramel does remain, simply because my arm, paralyzed in last night's sugar coma, was unable to lift it to my mouth.
So gone, a box of fancy chocolates in just three days. This is why I can't, won't shouldn't, rarely keep sweet treats I really like around the house. My otherwise substantial self-discipline – pop! – flies out the window.
Speaking of popping, the next sound I hear will be the button on my jeans set free and sailing across the room. I remember when I needed a belt for the roomy waist {waxing sentimental}. Good thing those chocolates weighed in at about a pound and no more, I was well on my way to a pair of maternity pants.
Speaking of poundage, presently this is not my friend:
This is:
blech
Barefoot Blogger 