I am having an affair.
Almost weekly I air out my coat to diffuse incriminating smells. Scents of my infidelity. Any details left over are stuffed in plastic bags and buried under trash.
But things have been getting out of control. I want to tell my husband, but I can’t. He can’t know that…
I’m having an affair with Starbuck’s hot chocolate.
I like to swirl the cup in my hand like it’s a fancy glass of wine. It’s the perfect balance between sweet and bitter, dolloped on the top with real whipped cream. I can pretend like I’m a “hipster” author while also keeping my morals.
But it’s kind of a no-no.
I mean, how many calories are in that cup? The sugar alone gets me hyped up until siesta. Plus, the cost of it all. $5.95.
With Mister and I working on getting healthy and staying financially fit, hot chocolate at Starbucks does not make sense. So when I do grab a drink, I hide the evidence. I air out my coat, throw out the trash before I get to my car and purchase it at Target instead of at an independent store.
My affair with hot chocolate began early in life. Swiss Miss was my gateway drug. After marriage, that graduated to Stephen’s Gourmet. I avoided what my mother called sinful, grainy.
It was the coffee cake that drew me in. Divine. But I needed to wash it down with something. Something lacking in the coffee department. And that’s when my affair began.
I have since confessed to my husband who now checks the garbage for possible hot chocolate tête-à-têtes. You don’t need to worry for me though.
I know how to hide it.