It’s time to admit the awful, wicked and terribly depressing truth: chocolate makes me sick. Last night, I indulged in a gluten-free, sugar-free blueberry cake with chocolate frosting. All night, a nightmare indulged in me (strangely enough, I was a large Viking woman orchestrating a complex blackmail scheme that involved driving along a cliff overlooking the ocean, blindfolded). This morning, a migraine.
This is, truth be told, no surprise. I have run this experiment thousands of times. Eat chocolate: get migraines. I know that drinking wine, sheesh — even apple cider, gives me migraines, and so for 25 years, I haven’t drank anything alcoholic. But when it comes to chocolate, my talent for rationalizing kept turning my head. While it’s true that I can have a little nibble of the stuff early in the day (say, 7 a.m.) and not get a headache, or I can have a bit of chocolate later on with an excedrin chaser and avoid a migraine, for the most part, I’m doomed, and it’s time to stop crashing on the shores of dark chocolate, chocolate pudding, chocolate cake, M & M’s scored at my mother-in-law’s, a little frosting from a kid’s birthday party and so on.
What’s a girl to do? This morning, while I carry a very full one-sided migraine in my head (a little like carrying a head full of hard water, all tilted to one corner), I will take a hot bath, eat a beautiful bowl of melon on the back deck, look into the expansive sky and write chocolate a Dear John letter. “Dear Chocolate, you know you’ve been my one and only, but we both know you’re no good for me, baby. You’re no good, you’re no good, baby you’re no good (Oh, wait, why is Linda Ronstadt singing in my ailing head?). It’s time to let you know, change all the locks and my cell phone number, and go home without you.”
I only pray that when chocolate calls, and it will (at regular intervals for the rest of my life), I’ll have the strength not to answer the phone.