Saturday was a family birthday celebration for three members of my extended family. Eight of us got together for salads and fruit and presents and those damn cupcakes from my favorite place, Saint Cupcake. A big box of 18 "dots" of varying flavors: chocolate, red velvet, banana, coconut: the smell of baked vanilla and sugar kept wafting in my direction.
I'd known they were coming and I'd gone prepared. I contributed a lovely brie and a nice havarti to the potluck and I was delighted to enjoy them with slices of Dave's Killer Peace Bomb baguette (a dense multi-seed and nut extravaganza-scrumptious). But unlike cutting a cake and surviving the four minutes it takes people to eat their slice, those cupcakes followed me around. They were eaten agonizingly slowly over about 5 hours. The box kept getting passed around so somebody could have one more and eat it in front of me. At one point, the remaining cupcakes were sitting on my terrace (although not in my house) waiting to go home with my nephew, who'd had to work during the party.
Now, I don't begrudge him those cupcakes. He's 19, and 6'5" and weights maybe 170. He's got lots of room for them and does not appear to be a sugar addict. Nor did I begrudge my family their enjoyment of the ones they ate. But it wasn't discreet, or simple, or easy for me.
It did not occur to me to have one. I didn't crave it, I didn't even want it. I just didn't want it in my face. I don't go to bakeries or ice cream parlors now any more than I would go to a bar and watch friends drink. Nothing in it for me.
So I'm glad that's over and I can go back to the safety or my routines.