Just One Piece

On our way home on Sunday, we stopped at Cracker Barrell for lunch. As we were standing at the register paying for our meal, I noticed they were selling individual Lindor Truffles--heaven my own personal hell in a wrapper.

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you may recall that Lindor Truffles, usually packaged in bags of 12 truffles, are a huge, massive, goliath of a trigger food for me. If you need a refresher, read this post, or this post, or this post.

I have not eaten one single Lindor Truffle since I started therapy for fear of the monster it might unleash. I'm not sure I've even touched one. During my months in therapy, I would walk down the specialty candy aisle and gaze longingly at the bags, smelling the creases hoping to catch the scent of my beloved truffles. I remember becoming so enchanted at one time that I went so far as to put a bag in my cart, only to come to my senses and return the bag to its shelf shortly thereafter. I knew better.

For me, Lindor Truffles were are like an ex that you just can't get out of your head. You know they're bad for you, they're no good for you, and you definitely don't like the person you become when you're around them... but you forget all of that when you're in their presence. When you see them across the store, when you see them in another room, when you walk by them... all you can think about is how you felt when you were with them--how they made you feel as if everything would be okay, that you were the only person in the world who mattered; that life was truly beautiful. Like you can't get enough. Then they would leave, and everything would fall apart. The things you felt, the wonderment you'd imagined, it would all come crashing down, leaving you broken. Abused. Shattered. Disgusted. Humiliated. Ashamed.

So, yeah, I haven't eaten or purchased a Lindor Truffle in a very long time. Not even one piece. That is, until last Sunday.

Last Sunday, I purchased one, single, individual truffle. And you know I did next?

I forgot about it. No, seriously. I actually forgot about it. I was full from lunch and decided I wasn't ready to eat it yet, so I threw it in our cooler so it wouldn't melt.

Yesterday when I got home from work and opened the fridge, I saw it sitting on the bottom shelf, all by its lonesome. When Marc unloaded the cooler Sunday evening, he must have put it there. I'd completely forgotten about it, and was truly surprised to see it in the fridge yesterday evening. Three days after I bought it.

And you know what? It's still there.

If that's not an eating disorder recovery victory, I don't know what is.