Crusty Bread And Some Chips At Midnight

Many years ago, when our daughter Jessica was a teenager, I had the occasion to raid our refrigerator at midnight. Actually, my midnight raids of our refrigerator were more of a nightly routine than an occasional anomaly, which explains a lot. This particular evening, as I stood in the glow of the Frigidaire clothed only in my tighty-whities and the anticipation of a midnight snack, I heard a snicker. One snicker was followed by a second and then raucous laughter. I looked up to see Jessica and two of her friends peering around the corner at my rotundness silhouetted in cold refrigerator light.


To say three young girls were scarred for life is an understatement, not to mention what it should have done to me. I should have been scared straight. If I remember correctly, the girls ran off giggling and I made a sandwich. Therein lays the problem. Food is, has been and will be my drug of choice. No amount of willpower or humiliation will keep me from deli meat, crusty bread and some chips at midnight.


You can say I'm weak, and you would be correct. You can say I am of flawed character, and again, you'd be correct. I can't do this on my own. I've tried and failed again and again. I need help.