Chapeau Rouge

Even though I itched to, I didn't go to the gym yesterday during break. I went to the little store across from the front porch here, to not buy some of those beguiling little foil-wrapped chocolate truffles. Instead, I bought a modest amount (4) of those Ginger Chews that leave that peppery-sweet taste on the tongue. I can easily down a bag of them, even after I have tossed them into the back seat of the car out of reach. Sometimes I have to pull over on I-91, wrench around and re-claim the bag. I mean, who am I kidding? I know the minute I spy those candies with the little Ginger Man reclining on a purple velvet pillow on the front of the package. (They're on the shelf right next to the Panda black licorice at the Hanover Food Co-Op.) I know I will eat the entire bag. It's a ridiculous tactic, as well as an exercise in DENIAL to pretend I will dole them out to myself at spacious intervals throughout the day.

Just like corn candy. I think: Wouldn't it be nice to bring a bowl of candy corn to the readings tonite? That is, until I get them back to my room - my new room, the one Wizzout Flies. They send me sneaky subliminal messages: You've been writing for an hour now. One or two of us would be a sweet reward for such intense creative momentum. They're right! I have been working hard. What's the harm in a small handful? Soon, it's: Oh, it's such a long time until lunch; perhaps a few more to tide you over? Well, right again! Another handful or two still leaves plenty for my fellow writers. And so on. In the end there's an empty bag of corn candy in the garbage can on top of the M&M wrapper from last night and the first empty bag of corn candy...

I used to buy packages of Oreo Double-Stuffed cookies for my son, Will, who said to me one day, "Mom, I don't even like those kind of cookies."

"Just admit it," he said. "They're for you."

So, I spent 80 cents on the ginger chews, and then I spied some beautiful hand-knit woolen hats. I tried on three, and chose a red one. I asked Gary, who sat behind the desk, how he thought it looked on me. "It almost matches your shirt," he said. Being a newly annointed 9 by Eneagam standards, I have to ask many people - legions of them - what their opinion is first. Then, I can make my own decision. Sometimes. I'm just that way, and it's okay. Obama, it turns out, is also a 9. So is Ringo Starr. And Marge Simpson.

I didn't have enough cash, so I asked if it would be all right to leave an IOU. (It did occur to me that it would have fit nicely under the shirt it almost matched.) Gary said that would be fine. I exited the store with my new red chapeau upon my head, and called back to Gary, "Thank you for trusting me."

It's just horrible to feel guilty for a passing thought. It can lead to embarrassing statements that leave people wondering huh?