Oh Caramello, Where Art Thou?

I have a dirty, dirty secret. I'm not proud to say this, but I have to come clean. I'm cheating on Ryan.

My new love is an old love, really. We have been in an on-again-off-again relationship for over 10 years. He's rich, he spoils me with decadency, I dream of him when we're apart, and he's...he's...well, he's a candy bar. I am in a pretty unhealthy (literally and figuratively) love affair with Cadbury's greatest creation - the Caramello candy bar.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar, Caramello really is the BEST candy bar around. It consists of luscious creamy caramel hidden in a soft milk chocolate treasure box. In true Cadbury fashion, they used to only be available around Easter time, but now they are within reach all year long. Wonderful news for my taste buds, terrible news for my hips.

Remember when I said this was my dirty secret? I meant it. As a former fat kid, I really do try to make good decisions about nutrition. I believe that treats like candy bars are fine, as long as they are true treats and are consumed in moderation. But there's something about those sweet caramel nuggets that have consumed me.

I shouldn't call it cheating I guess, considering that Ryan is well aware of my love for Caramello. He aids and abets this habit, in fact. Whenever he sees one, he sweetly brings one (or two - don't judge me!) home for me. He sees how hard I work to make those good nutritional choices, so he supports the occasional indulgence.

'Occasional' is a really loose term - so if I were to, hypothetically of course, say that I defined an occasional Caramello indulgence as once a day, that technically wouldn't be untrue. Right? Let's just agree to agree on this one. Upon recently having a slight acne outbreak, I told my husband that it must be due to a new medication I am using. When he gently danced around the possibility of my pimple being caused by the amount of Caramellos I had been eating, I exclaimed that 'I haven't had one in TWO days!' According to Ryan, the mere fact that I think two days without a Caramello is an impressive feat means that I do, in reality, have a problem.

Okay. Maybe I do have a problem.  If I look back closely, I guess I can see the warning signs. I may or may not choose the checkout lane I frequent at the grocery store based on whether there is a Caramello there or not. And I may or may not be finding remnants of Caramello wrapper in places where I know I haven't eaten one -  like the car, and in the laundry, and perhaps most depressing, the bathtub. Yes, I said bathtub.

This is not my proudest moment. Most delicious? Perhaps. I'd like to say that this post is a cry for help, but it really isn't. If loving Caramello is wrong, I don't want to be right.