I am a sweet person. That is, I love sweet foods. They call out to me from shop windows, whispering their quiet descent to my, somewhat resolute, self-control

I Love Sweets.

My mother and father were not sweets people. Rarely, would I find anything resembling junk food within the confines of my parent’s apartment. The closest thing to a snack in my childhood was a plain rice cake because it held no purpose outside the peckish impulses both my sister and I expressed. Simply, we were Cheerios (TM) children; that all too common class of New York City children born into upper-middle-class liberal families that had read Dr. Spock and enjoyed MacNeil/Lehrer News Hour.

We were the tragically un-hip children in school. My younger sister and I were destined never to be popular. Donned in our sensible L.L. Bean jackets and non-name-brand shoes. We were never the envy of other kids.

“I am not going to get you those [expensive] shoes,” my mother used to say in her staccato German accent “you will out grow them in a month.”

“But mom!”

She was right of course, we would have out-grown them too quickly to ever rationalize spending hard-earned money on plastic and leather. No child of 10 should wear $50 shoes, but back then it was of little comfort that I would dress in shoes that kids in communist china would have considered “so last year.”

I had Velcro shoes before it was remotely cool to have Velcro shoes.

My sister and I were born to practical parents. Parents who knew the value of a dollar and would never frivolously spend money on such extravagances as expensive shoes or yummy treats. Bet we had a secret fund that we would use to purchase our contraband goodies. It was the gravy train, known to most inner-city children of non-legal working age as allowance. This magical pot of gold would surface every week and offer a child a temporary spending spree of delectable sweets. This sugar trust fund should have, theoretically, lasted a week, but I was weak and left to my own devices could devour a 1 lb. bag of Twizzlers in one sitting.

I have had a problem.

For all intents and purposes, I should have diabetes with the amount of sugar I have ingested in my lifetime. This severe addiction lasted well into my teens until, thanks to a hiatus in my deforming acne, I found girls far more intriguing. I had to lose the pudge and swore off candy and took up a healthier diet.

I’m still obsessed with sweets today and regularly have to remove a bag of Twizzlers from my basket at checkout at Duane Read on my purchase of shampoo. They just seem so inviting, small little glossy bags of goodness and I break easy. I am, however, getting better. I almost completely stopped going to CVS after Halloween to buy discounted Cadbury Cream Eggs. I hardly ever buy the seasonal Hershey’s Kisses after Christmas anymore.

I am a reformed candiholic, but it’s still hard, because once I break my candy seal, as I’ve said to many invitations to a chocolate morsel “you’ll find me in the middle of the night, in the closet, with a flashlight, a mouth covered in chocolate and a bag of snickers bars.”

…and unfortunately, it’s all true.