After nearly three weeks of hospital food, I broke down yesterday and high tailed it to the supermercado nearest the hospital under the guise of post c-section rehabilitation. What I was really doing though was hunting for deodorant and chocolate, two such things one cannot live without postpartum. Ten minutes and two euros later I had my fix, one of those really big chocolate bars, not at all like the American jumbo sized candy bar but more like the 'could be a tennis racket' size.
As fast as my swollen little ankles could carry me, I waddled on down the road, entered the store and made a beeline for the novelties aisle. I'll admit, the deodorant I threw in the basket was just a decoy, and a pretty lame one at that. The cashier, fully capable of calling my bluff, thankfully did not. I'd convinced myself that I too can enjoy chocolate in moderation, one, maybe two squares at a time thus making it last until well into the following week. You know where this is going, don't you. [sigh]
Sadly, the punishment for my crime is not the absence of the Nestle bar but rather the roommate's Cadbury sitting untouched since the day before between the strawberry and vanilla yogurts on the top shelf of the fridge, his wrapper snug as he hisses disapproval in his haughty French accent because European disapproval always comes with a French accent, “Go on now, Fat American. No more chocolate for you!”
Yes, moderation it appears is proof positive that I'll never be European.
No matter how many different ways I tie my scarf.