I had been doing so well – clean for almost a full year; the meetings, the steps, heck – I even had this portly fella from the outskirts of Amboy who I’d been sponsoring for the past few months.  But on a fateful Sunday afternoon in mid-February, it all fell apart.

It all started with an innocent trip to Fred Meyer for a few miscellaneous items – like spinach for my protein shakes (okay, not really – but it easily could have been).  I had just checked out and was headed for the exit – and that’s when I saw her; my arch nemesis, my kryptonite, my (pause for effect) dealer.  I had removed her number from my phone and swore I would never contact her again.  But here she was - standing before me, doing her best to look all sweet and innocent but we both knew otherwise.  She had grown a little since I last saw her, but I recognized her immediately. This 4’10” purveyor of portliness was wearing the standard quasi military-looking uniform (clearly meant to intimidate), knee-high socks, pigtails, and that sash – that cursed sash that renders me utterly helpless.  I froze in my tracks. My blood sugar ran cold. I knew I shouldn’t have gone grocery shopping on an empty stomach – never a good idea – and now, standing in front of this folding card table loaded with an array of colorful boxes, I was doomed for a sugary relapse of cataclysmic proportion.

“Long time no see, Matt” she said with a wry, condescending smile.  “Yeah, it’s been a minute, Chloe.  I trust you’ve been well,” I said with a shaky voice, trying to avoid eye-contact and not sound nervous - failing miserably at both.  “Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?  What’ll it be?”  she asked with a hint of bravado that made me stammer - “Oh, I’m, I’m good – but thank you for asking.”  Her eyes and lips simultaneously took on the look of a neglected puppy dog as she hit me with, “That’s okay.  Maybe my troop will be able to afford our trip to the science museum next year instead.”  I swallowed hard and reached for my wallet.

Eleven months, two weeks and six days – down the drain.  I was mere minutes away from devouring an entire sleeve of Thin Mints on the drive home (never mind the fact my commute from the parking lot to my driveway is less than five minutes).

This pint-sized Paublo Escabar knew me better than I knew myself – “If memory serves, you’re a Thin Mint, Do-Si-Do and Samoa man, yes?”  With my eyes cast downward, I nodded and mumbled a barely audible “Yeah, that’s right.”  “What?   I couldn’t quite hear that.” she asked, craning her neck to meet my gaze.  I cleared my throat and offered a slightly more convincing “Yes, that’s what I want.”  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  (I can’t be certain, but I could have sworn she finished her sentence with a disparaging yet fitting expletive).

“How much?” I asked, knowing full well exactly how much these little boxes of sinfulness were selling for. “Six dollars each, or I could give you three boxes for $18.”  I did the math in my head and looked at her inquisitively. She knew exactly what she was saying, this little pusher wasn’t just looking to knock me off the wagon, she was going to beat me senseless with a frozen sleeve of Do-Si-Dos. I was helpless.

We completed our transaction and with two armloads of overpriced cookies – looking like some survivalist preparing for the cookie apocalypse – I hung my head and trundled to my car reeking of shame and embarrassment.

Some of you will empathize.   Some of you will commiserate.  And some of you will judge.  And that’s fine – whatever position you take (or you could be like my bathroom scale and just stop speaking to me all together).  But can we just take a moment and talk about the granddaddy of them all?  Samoas.   For the love of all that is holy – the Samoas.  If I could find a way to liquify these little coconut concoctions of deliciousness and get them into my system intravenously, I would.  I’ve heard they’re illegal in 17 different countries.  For a short time in Kazakhstan, they were used as underground currency.  They’re deliciously valuable and I’m simply bewildered by the fact they’re only sold for a few weeks a year.  If this gaggle of green beret wearing cookie connoisseurs had any business acumen, they’d be pushing their product year-round; they’d unseat Bezos and Musk as the world’s richest people by mid-April!  But for the sake of our collective mid-sections, let’s all take a moment and thank the good scout leader above this hasn’t happened… yet.

For those of you who feel my pain – just know you’re not alone.  Perhaps we could set-up a support group in the basement of my home.  I’ll provide the frozen thin mints.  We’ll get through this together.

m.e.