Four pounds, 1.5 ounces of Godiva Chocolates

My summary judgment hearing in state district court went spectacularly this morning. We dramatically pared down the issues to be presented to the jury, thereby drastically shortening the length of the jury trial scheduled for mid-October. When I arrived back at the 10th floor reception area of my office, Michelle, our receptionist, cheerfully called out, "Mr. R, you have a package from GODIVA." The capital letters are meant to reflect the dreamy tone of her voice when she reached the word GODIVA. I replied, "Thanks Michelle," and tucked the large box under my slightly larger arm.

As I walked away, Michelle called out, "You know, I've had to fend off several people this morning who wanted to steal your package because it said Godiva on it."

"I'm sure. Thanks for being so vigilant," I replied as I walked to my office.

After placing the large box on my desk, I used my door key to slice the packing tape across the top. As I pulled the cardboard flaps open, I noticed the white styrofoam packing sarcophagus inside. Carefully lifting the lid, I moved the four freezer gel packs surrounding the beautiful gold box out of the way. I lifted the gold box from its shipping container and placed it in the center of my desk. Tucked into the beautiful gold ribbon that encased the box was a small envelope with the Godiva insignia on it, and the bronze printed script words, "A Gift Message for You."

I placed the box in the center of my desk, removed the envelope, and opened it. "Please Enjoy the World's Ultimate Chocolate Indulgence." And it bore the name of the giver. But before I tell you who it was, a bit about my growing up.

To say that we were poor was an understatement. My five brothers and sisters and I, and my parents, shared a dismal apartment in a New York City housing project. My father, God rest his soul, was a graphics art teacher who worked hard when he could, but was stricken with a disabling physical condition when I was young. My mother, who obtained her GED degree at age 50, trained herself to do medical billing for a group of doctors. They were united in their insistence that education was the only viable ladder out out of our dire economic circumstances. To their credit, and despite great odds, five out of the six of us obtained college degrees, and the sixth obtained a vocational school degree. Four out of the six of us obtained post-graduate degrees. Among our numbers are a cardiologist, a lawyer (uhhhh... that's me), a registered dietitican, an engineering piping designer, a lab technician, and a signal maintenance foreperson for the New York City Subway system. For eleven straight years, from high school through law school, I worked full time and attended high school, college and law school full time. It nearly killed me, but I survived. I tell you of my past circumstances so that you will know that while I grew up, pennies and nickles counted. Chocolate was a luxury that we simply could not afford. When we DID have it, it was usually at the home of a better off uncle, aunt or other family member. On rare occasion, were grateful to have store brand chocolate that, to us, tasted as though God himself (or herself) had kissed each piece. "Fancy" chocolate like Hersheys or Nestles was out of the question.

After I graduated law school and began making money, from time to time, I would treat myself to really good chocolate. Everyone has their own gold standard for things. For me, when it came to chocolate, the gold standard was Godiva. Whether the fancy, schmansy packaging, or the velvety smoothe goodness of their deep, rich chocolate delights, that's the stuff that did it for me. And best of all, the boxes were perfect in terms of serving size. One pound of chocolate, one serving. On a particularly bad day, a two pound box of chocolate equalled one serving. It didn't really matter that I was shoving the pieces in my mouth practically as fast as it could. The combination of consuming vast quantities of what, as a child, had been beyond our reach, was intoxicating. It was also a big part of the reason I weighed 180 in high school and 478 thirty days ago.

Flash forward to August, 2012. I have been on MFP for 30 and one half days and dropped 25 pounds. And here, some garbanzo bean found out about my success and, in an obvious effort to sabotage it, sent me 4 pounds, 1.5 ounces, of my biggest weakness in the world. What inconsiderate boob would do that? And now back to the message that accompanied my chocolates--

"Please Enjoy the World's Ultimate Chocolate Indulgence." - Love, Scott R.

Yep. I bought 'em and sent 'em to myself.

Before I get a whole cascade of angry messages from my wonderful MFP friends (I could tell they'll be angry because they'd be in ALL CAPS and have lots of these guys and these guys :grumble: in them), let me explain why.

I've been telling everyone who will listen (and many who won't) that this is a marathon, not a sprint. Well, part of a marathon is slowing down your pace and reaching for a cup of water periodically to help keep you going. Could you have maintained a faster pace if you didn't slow down for the periodic cup of water? Yes! Would not slowing down for water periodically have made it less likely that you would finish the marathon? Yes!

Being a marathon, not a sprint, means that I can't deprive myself of every food and beverage that I love to eat and drink. Being a sprint, not a marathon, means that I have to carefully incorporate things that I love to eat and drink into my daily life NOW, and not at some theoretical goal point two years off in the distance. I have to not only learn, but LIVE the fact that one, two or three pieces of chocolate that I have the daily calories to include in my diet are the "cups of water" that will help me to reach the finish line two years from now. I think I'm getting there. How do I know? Ten years ago, I would have torn into both the box and its contents within mere seconds of it being placed in front of me. This morning, the box has occupied my desk for the half-hour that I've written this message, and I have yet to savor even one piece of its contents.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to take five minutes to close the door to my office, visually admire the contents of my new gift, pick out four pieces (no more, and no less), record my 190 calories on MFP, and savor each delectable morsel.

Maybe, just maybe, there is hope for me yet.