The Lost Cookie

It's time for another review of Monday night's group therapy work-out with the grandmas.

This session went better than last week's, by which I mean there was no passing out/ throwing up feeling. Yay! I'll admit, I ate healthy stuff (mostly) all week, and it seemed to pay off. But the agony of going without sugar (okay, not totally without, but cutting back is hard!) was catching up to my mental health by the time I got in the car to go home.

That's when it happened. I remembered the cookie. The cookie I bought for Monsoon when we went to the mall last week. The one he only ate half of before giving it back to me. The one I put back in the wrapper and shoved in my purse, thinking he'd want it back later. The same cookie that fell out of my purse later that day in the car and I was too lazy/ cold to take two seconds and pick it up off the floorboard. The very cookie that smelled soooo good and looked sooo yummy with all the m&m's baked into it. Yes. That cookie.

Fast forward back to the end of "therapy": everyone else left, and I found myself knee-deep in paper wrappers, scrounging for the lost cookie. There were french fries, some ketchup, even a pickle on that floor. And an apple - no idea how that got there. But I found the cookie. It was still covered by it's wrapper, still coated with colorful candy, and hard as a rock from the freezing temperature. It nearly broke my tooth...

Yeah, I tried to eat it. Bluchk! Totally not worth it. I spit it back out and took a moment to evaluate my actions. I think I'm sick. I need baked goods. It must be a disease, the inability to go without.