At first, however, I felt renewed and energized. I even thought it curbed my appetite for food. I rationalized that it provided helpful benefits--cardiovascular especially.
I'm not sure what appealed to me most about it--was it the flavor, the texture, the aftertaste clinging to the back of my palate? Was it the after-effects--the exhilaration, the sense of happiness, or the ready-for-the-next-moment tingling it created?
The appeal evolved into memory. Memory stored in my cocoa-neurons with a life of their own--ready to fire at any moment. And I let them fire at will. For a very long time.
The cocoa-neurons needed ammo. I provided it. With pleasure. Usually nothing but the best for my cocoa-neurons. None of the pre-bagged stuff. Only the handpicked variety except for some excellent pre-wrapped ammo from San Francisco, the kind that conveniently fit into the crevasses of my handbags or my car. The emergency ammo.
I could find my emergency ammo everywhere in my house, too--the kitchen, of course, in the pantry, the freezer, on the countertop, on the shelf by my purse. On my bathroom sink (to nibble on while drying my hair and reading), by my bedside, at my desk, in my study closet. Maybe in a pocket or two.
I had to be careful. Storage of ammo was a dangerous proposition, especially for my dog, who could sniff it out anywhere, smell it on my breath, pull it down from its hiding places. Not a healthy event for a dog, especially the dark, dark ammo with which I most frequently supplied my cocoa-neurons.
On the rare occasion when my dog got a taste of the ammo, his exploding cocoa-neurons made him crazy. They caused him to dash back and forth and around and around the room His eyes would gaze in a crazed stare, then he would bolt and run--going nowhere, anywhere. Then he'd be okay.
That was the energy in those cocoa neurons. It had the same effect on me. I liked that effect. But after the dust settled, as it is said, it actually settled. Mostly in my waistline. I didn't like that. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I was required to call into action my collection of "big pants," the ones I had in reserve. Months would go by and I washed and re-wore the same big pants, while I looked fondly and longingly at the pants of days-gone-by. My belts hung sadly on their hangers. Only tops large enough to blouse-out over my hips would work. No more tuck-ins. Those tops just seemed to laugh at me from the closet. They liked their vacation.
I didn't like being mocked. Not by inanimate objects, not by that little voice in my head telling me that I was fat, not by the groans from my waistline when I tried to button some cute capris that I wore last summer.
It was time to take action. I couldn't bear to detonate the ammo, so I tried to vanquish it by ignoring its presence. But its memory had been locked inside me--ready at a moment's notice to be retrieved. How does one block memory that exists not only in one's knowledge, but in one's senses? Does memory fade with each day of non-retrieval?
So far, the answer to that question is "no." No, the memory does not fade. It haunts me every waking hour. So I succumb to it my indulging in several morsels a day from my 11.5 ounce brown and gold foil bag of the San Francisco 60% variety. And there is a giant brown and gold foil backup bag in my freezer, ready for service at any given moment--a present from my mother who bought them at Sam's Club for the cookies I bake for my dad and her.
So I'm not perfect. I've never claimed to be. Maybe those daily morsels fuel a simmering memory that cannot be doused without 100% withdrawal. But I have vanquished the rest of the ammo. I've seen some modest results. The mocking from my closet has stopped. But the voice in my head and the groans from my waistline, although fainter, still remain. Seems like memory has a life of its own.
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