Addiction: to drugs, sex, rock and roll...it doesn't matter. It's an ugly, ugly thing if you don't get your fix. I should know, I have a sweet-tooth that just won't quit and just enough upper-middle-class sensibilities to not be satisfied with M&Ms or Vienna Fingers (not that I don't bow to these on occassion), but I long for the dense Lindt truffles, the bittersweet mousse française, spongey Sara Lee All-Butter Pound Cake, the European Nestlé's (not the American shipments) and I prefer my chocolates dark, not sweet. Should I want a really good cookie, I want a brick-solid Carol's Cookie or soft Mrs. Field's semi-sweet. If I crave vanilla, it's Breyer's Vanilla-Bean. Mint? Marshal Field's Frango Mints (although they no longer make the ice cream with bittersweet hot fudge; a loss to civilization, I assure you.) Taste for nuts? Crunchy: dark chocolcate-covered hazelnuts. Smooth: Nutella on a spoon. Playful: marzipan rolled into a little ball and popped into my mouth. We all have our little idiosyncracies and mine comes in specified caloric intake. I'm the same way with most things, from colors (vibrant and dramatic) to fabrics (silk and sweatshirt) to scents (baking and spices) and vacations (tropical and West European). I like what I like and I don't care what the name brand or label is. Hedonism has no logo limitations and frankly, you can take your Nikes and Gap clothes and Frederick's of Hollywood lace-and-clasp monstronsities and I'll take worn flannels any day of the week. I'd like to say I'm low maintenance that way, but my dear friend Ranjan compared me more to Sally from "When Harry Met..." -- and the way she ordered her food sounded slightly familiar, although dreadfully simplistic. Sandwiches? Please. I make my own. But I content myself that at least my addiction is sane; what people seem to do in withdrawal stages seems utterly ludicrous. The point was driven home during a quiet ride to an appointment. (Let me say on a side note that I rarely play music in my car and will listen to NPR, if anything at all, and will otherwise think quietly to myself and wonder about the universe as most of it goes whizzing by at 70 mph.) My drug of choice today was Walker's Pure Butter Shortbread (the sticks, mind you, not the little triangles which aren't thick enough to get a satisfying crunch out of them) -- these little delicacies have so much butter in them that my arteries fairly clog in delight at the mere sight of plaid! Anyway, I was munching away when the thought occurred to me: I'm a snobbish addict and thank goodness. I mean, I'm sure that drug addicts have their preferences of where their pot was grown (Maui Wowie comes to mind), or how the cut and lace combine to create their favorite high -- but for me and mine, I only want the very best sugar rush with rich flavors and mouth-melt to my chocolates. Hey, if I'm going to keep adding to my hips, it better be worth the weight! And what's so wrong with that? When the whole "low fat/Lite" fad exploded in the 80's, I was stunned. The calories were really no different (usually the servings were simply smaller) and now the chemicals had longer names than John-Jacob-what's-his-name. I reasoned if I was in the mood for ice cream, I bloody well would go get a scoop of ice cream and be done with it. A craving does not necessitate I need eat myself sick. Those "pure" calories were miniscule to the idea of stuffing a half-gallon of pseudo-ice-stuff in your face, swallowing the calories and polysodiumglutemates and still feeling cheated. Where's the logic in that? And "Olestra," the newest craze (and I use that term literally) will make you gassy, diarrhetic and all-around gastrointestinally miserable -- but hey, there's no fat! I saw a heavy-set woman in an interview almost weeping with joy: "I can have potato chips again!" Are these people insane? Buy a small packet of Pringles or Lay's or something lunch-bag sized, content yourself with a little saturated fat and salt, and then it's over. Indulge! Enjoy! Just don't poison yourself to death in the name of dieting. All you will do is make a very thin corpse and I can assure you no one will look down and proclaim how healthy you look in the casket. Now don't get me wrong, I need to lose weight, but not because the scales say so; I just know I used to fit into my favorite jeans and now I don't. If I want to, then I should lose weight. If I don't, I won't. Empowering, isn't it? I figure somehow with a good job, good friends, fun hobbies and a great fiancée, my self-esteem can stay intact even if I'm nowhere near a size 4 (or 14 for that matter). Now pass the Chevalier's. I'll be lounging near the Boticelli.