In college I called it my freshman fifteen. In my twenties, I called it my baby weight. As the years roll by, I have creatively given numerous names to the increasing fluffiness of my body. Could it be that I should start taking this situation more serious?
Yesterday as I drove across town I was suddenly drawn into Krispy Kreme doughnut shop by a blinking red light. The light simply said ďHOTĒ. Why should a single word have such influence over me?
Recently as I sat reading in my home, I heard a sound coming from my kitchen. I didnít recognize the voice so I immediately investigated. There was no one there. As I was about to leave the kitchen I heard the strange voice again. It appeared to be emanating from my pantry. I opened the pantry door quickly and to my utter surprise a bag of chocolate chip cookies began talking to me.
The bag swayed slightly and from inside a voice said, ďEat me! Eat me, now!Ē
Startled I ran from the kitchen, but the voice called after me again and again. Where could I go to free myself from the annoying repetitive statement, eat me?
I ran to my bedroom and covered my ears with a pillow. At last the relief I craved. I could no longer hear the cookies calling out to me.
While sitting on my bed with a pillow over my ears, I felt a wave of shame engulf me. How could a grown woman be frightened by a bag of talking cookies? Disregard that question. I do realize that cookies do not talk.
Anyway, I managed to turn the volume of the television up enough that the unwanted sounds from the kitchen could not annoy me.
Later that evening, I was reading my favorite book and without warning I was face to face with a full color picture of the most scrumptious looking triple chocolate cake. It was as if the page had a scratch and smell strip on it. I could smell the overpowering aroma of the dense layers of chocolate cake and the creamy fudge icing that covered them from top to bottom.
Again I found myself in such a dilemma. Here I am captivated by a picture in a cookbook. Frozen in place, I helplessly drooled over a photograph. What on earth is wrong with me?
As you can see, I am having a difficult time staying in touch with reality when it comes to food. After all these years and all the excuses Iíve made about my fluffiness, you would think I could just admit to myself that the problem isnít me at all.
The problem is the marketing strategies of the companies that make these delectable concoctions. They obviously employ highly educated associates who take advantage of fluffy people across the globe.
They are calculating and cold hearted. They have little feeling for the plight of fluffies.
Now that I have established the sinister motive of the marketers I need a plan of action. I need to make them pay.
I have it! If all the fluffies in the world stop buying the fat laden, calorie coated, hydrogenated oil drenched goodies that make our mouths so very happy, the food companies will stop selling themÖ
On second thought, perhaps I should not be too hasty with this plan. After all it could cause companies to fail which would cause hardworking professionals to be without jobs. That would lead to more people being on unemployment, more children living in poverty, and more distress on the government.
No, no, I canít start such a selfish endeavor. It isnít right to think only of the fluffies. My scope must not be so narrow. For the good of mankind, I have to back away from my plan to hold food companies accountable for making me and others fluffy.
Do you think?
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