For a good portion of the day, there has been a box on my dining room table. This is not just any box. There on my table sits a small box containing none other than delicious, fresh, creamy Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
I know that doughnuts are not good for me. Each time I take a bite of one, I feel myself dying just a bit inside. I’m no doctor, but I think that each doughnut eaten takes off a week from your life. If that is the case, I probably have two years left max.
Knowing that these little delicious bites of death are what will surely be the end of me, I had avoided them all day. The issue was, though, that I desperately wanted one. All I could think about was that box of deliciousness sitting on my table, slowly becoming more stale by the second.
So many times I almost stood up and walked to the dining room to get that box, but would sit back down in shame. I knew that if I were to eat a doughnut, I would be filled with a large amount of self-loathing the second that I bit into it. There was only one answer to this solution.
I needed my wife to eat a doughnut. At least then we could experience self-loathing together.
I began to work on a plan. As my wife sat on the couch knitting, I plopped down next to her. I casually complimented her project, then used very subtle subliminal messaging to convince her that she did indeed want a doughnut.
“You know what sounds good? Those doughnuts,” I said.
“I don’t really want one,” she replied, going back to her knitting.
This was an unforeseen result. I thought for sure that I had convinced her. I sat there, stunned, trying to figure out my next move. I certainly was not going to eat a doughnut alone, so this had to happen.
After a few minutes, I tried an even more subtle doughnut conversation. “What kind of doughnuts did we get?” I thought for sure that she would think of that chocolate cheesecake doughnut that she had picked out, immediately start salivating, then rush over.
There was no salivating. Instead she answered, never looking up from her clicking needles. The doughnuts sat on the table untouched.
Three or four doughnut mentions later, my wife declared that she was hungry. I began celebrating in my mind. I saw fireworks. I imagined a marching band passing through the living room. I almost began pumping my fists in celebration, but stopped short. Any sudden movement like that would distract her from the doughnut on the table.
“I think I’m going to make chicken tenders,” she said, walking past the table and into the kitchen. The doughnuts sat there, so close, yet so far away.
In a last ditch effort, I did what anyone would do. I walked over to the box and opened it. As my wife scurried about the kitchen preparing dinner, I moved the box closer and closer to her. My thought process, as impeccable as ever, was that she would see the doughnut and be overjoyed by its presence, not caring that I was standing directly in her way with fried treats.
Instead, she gave me an annoyed look. “If you want a doughnut, just eat one!” she said, her exasperation echoing off of the kitchen walls. I’d been found out! I quietly sat the box back on the table and went to the living room, my head hung in shame.
Why not eat a doughnut? I thought. I mean, I am an adult. I can make an adult decision to eat a doughnut in the privacy of my own home. I don’t need someone else to allow me to have one. The worst thing that could happen is this doughnut will be the thing that finally pushes me over the edge from mildly unhealthy to disgustingly out of shape. Children would see me on the street and start crying, begging their parents to get them away from “that big fat monster man.”
On second thought, eating a doughnut does not seem like a great idea.
A short time later, I ate my dinner. It was good, but not Krispy Kreme good. We sat on the couch watching the Golden Globes and my wife said the words I had been waiting for all day.
“I kind of want a doughnut.” I was up faster than anyone can ever imagine. Let me tell you, that doughnut did not disappoint. If those kids want to call me a big fat monster man, that’s their problem. They’re just mad that they have to wait for someone else’s permission to eat a doughnut.