Generally, I do pretty well resisting the temptations of life. But other times, I pounce on them like a dog on a dropped potato chip. I like to think of myself as organized and rational. And in most parts of my life, I am. But there are times when I need a carefully cultivated habit and good sense desert me. Some days I can get to supper time without realizing I haven't had anything but coffee. Other times, the fast food places I pass call to me like the neon lights of Las Vegas to a gambler. "Come on in," the golden arches croon. "You know you love us. You know you want a fat hamburger with cheese and pickles and mustard and onions and while you're here, why not throw in a chocolate shake?" The next one down the road displays its own charms with signs reminding me they have the hottest fries in town and hey, did you see that we have a a special on nuggets and fries? These siren calls seem to come when I'm on my way to the grocery store. And when I do manage to resist, I know I'm heading for the Land of Temptation with it's never-ending aisles of good stuff. People who know more than me say that to safely navigate the grocery store, one should always stick to the outside aisles. There, these experts proclaim, are the real treats in life-- fruits, vegetables, dairy, and other rewards for the virtuous. Fine and dandy if I didn't need other things, too. There is a particular brand of soup veggies that I really like, mostly because it has okra in it. I try to catch the bags on sale and stock up. But sometimes I have no choice but to walk into the frozen section and find them. Therein lies the danger. The veggies I want are never on the end, easy to grab and get out. No, they are usually somewhere in the middle. And I have to look for them. The giant section of heat-and-eat delights beckon me. All I need is a couple of minutes and a microwave and I can feast on pizza or French fries. Pot pies and tater tots, one-serving lasagna and the garlic bread to go with it. If I manage to escape from there unscathed, my cart still empty, more danger lurks down the row. Here is the breakfast section and really, can't breakfast be any meal? Beautiful brown-and-serve sausages push against the freezer windows, shoving for dominance over French toast sticks and premade sausage biscuits. Oh, and look, blueberry pancakes! Little bitty omelet bites! Waffles for the toaster! Inevitably, I am drawn to the ice cream section. How can there be so many flavors? How can I have tried so few of them? And cozying up beside them are the ice cream treats. Just looking at those ice cream drumsticks takes me back to my childhood, sitting outside under the summer sky, shaded by a tree, trying to finish mine before it melts. Dreamsicles, that perfect pairing of orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream. That, I've always believed, is what a cloud would taste like. Every stinkin' section of the store is set up to make me buy. Next to the good-for-me yogurt are tubs of tapioca which doesn't quite taste like my grandmother's, but close enough. And doughnuts always reside next to the bread. Picking up a load of the 35-calorie stuff is hard when a Danish in all its iced splendor catches the eye. Worst of all are those end aisles. No matter the store, whether stocked with cookies or dish towels, those displays are designed to take your money. I do not need Americana-designed paper plates and cups for my Memorial Day cookout. The plain ones I already have will do just as well. But then that little voice whispers, "But it's a holiday. And you deserve something special." And so I cave in. But I appease my conscience by telling myself they're cheaper than that four-layer cake with the plastic flag on top.
