Substance Abuse

My name is Amy, and I have a substance abuse problem. No, Mom, it's not a drinking problem (insert "drinking isn't a problem" joke here) and no, I haven't taken to crack, mainly because sleep is the only thing that keeps me from going insane with boredom after work. My problem is an unregulated substance, one which should be kept away from me at all costs. There should be a five-day waiting period for purchasing a bag of these gems. My name is Amy, and I'm addicted to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
I think the endless supply of Valentine's Day candy in my office got me started. One of my coworkers brought in sandbag-size sacks of hard candies for our department's enjoyment. Necco hearts, Sweet Tarts and hard, fruity-flavored hearts took up residence on a small table that's positioned outside my cubicle. In order to do just about anything (get a glass of water, use the loo, sharpen a pencil) I have to walk by the table and I'm presented with Sweet Tarts, which I actually like. So I grab a handful after I sharpen my pencil. I grab a handful to eat with my glass of water. I think there's some sort of sweet-tooth fertilizer in these things, because I haven't been able to walk past a piece of candy this week without eating it. Usually sweets are the last thing I want to eat-- I'm much more of a chips and french fries aficionado. But this weekend I had a hankering for peanut butter cups, and since it was Valentine's Day, I figured I could treat myself. So I bought a small bag of candy at Target on Sunday, figuring by the time I finished the bag my craving would be more than sated.
Not only did I buy the bag of Reeses, I also bought the smallest container of vanilla ice cream I could find. Why vanilla? So I could open the Reeses, drop them in a bowl and add half-melted vanilla ice cream into the mix. I did this on Tuesday, and consumed the entire concoction in two minutes. I don't think I took a breath as I shoveled the chocolate, peanut butter and melted sugar-cream into my mouth. I thought if I did it once, I would feel sick enough to not want to eat it again.
But where was I after I left the gym last night? In Star Market, buying a half-price bag of Valentine's peanut butter cups, destined for a shared bowl with the remaining ice cream. The cashier looked at me quizzically as I set the lonely bag of candy on the conveyer belt.
"Do you want a bag?" He asked, looking nervous as though I would chew his arm off if he manhandled the chocolate.
"No, thank you," I replied as pleasantly as possible, not taking my eyes off the gleaming cellophane bag as he tossed it down as if I'd told him to put down his weapon and come out with his hands up.
I at least had the self-control to wait until the Apprentice was on to open up about six of the mini-Reeses, crush them up and dump a couple of scoops of mushy ice cream on top. My roommate and I watched TV, she eating lukewarm french fries, me with my troth of sloth and gluttony, looking the part of stereotypical Americans. I'm leaving town this weekend for a Road Trip of New England, so I can only hope that once I finish this bag the problem will have passed. Otherwise, I'll go through withdrawl while shopping for steeply discounted khakis at J. Crew. Somebody hand me a bag of carrots and a Dexatrim before I am too far gone to be helped.