Around 10a we got an email "Doughnuts in the kitchen." Why people why? Why do you insist on bringing them in? Seriously, are you trying to torture me? I would watch as person after person would pass my desk on the way to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. A glint in their eyes, a smirk on their face, and that anxious look of anticipation, knowing they were going to be bad, that within moments they would be eating that deliciously sugary treat.
I sat at my desk only thinking about those doughnuts, that Old-Fashion calling my name, and thinking and thinking. Why is it that when I know there's something I want, that's ALL. I. CAN. THINK. OF. It's such torture.
Then I saw evidence. I blankly stared as those same people walked out of the kitchen holding their golden price. This time the look of love written all over their faces. Big eyes, their heads tilted to one side, just a bit, and a smile that said it all. I hated every single one of them.
But in the end, I prevailed, I willed my ass to stay seated. I didn't make excuses as to why I HAD to go to the kitchen. I just sat and slowly watched the clock tick away the moments, counting each tick, tick, tick as a small victory of my will.