My newest habit is eating dessert for dinner. Instead of dinner. A quart of ice cream, or, like tonight, chocolate cake. It's quite safe to say my sweet tooth knows no bounds. Little shames me, but one Easter as a child, a late great-aunt I held in high esteem (she once complimented me on how I politely ate soup) coolly surveyed the chocolate wrappers littering my lap and the floor around me and silently admonished me. I hated disappointing her, yet I hated leaving any chocolate uneaten even more.
When you have a health scare, the little things are amplified. Dessert for dinner goes from "I should" to "you bet I will." Impromptu weekend trips or sneaking out of work early to see a movie? Such small infractions in the grand scheme of things.
And when you're alone with your scare, chocolate cake moves from dessert, to dinner, to friend.
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