I am supposed to like chocolate. It’s like PMS or bad chick flicks—part of the essence of womanhood. But these days, I can’t even smell the stuff without getting nauseous. No, I’m not pregnant. I might have ODed on the substance as a child.
Chocolate is like a female crutch: for celebration, for depression, for daily indulgences. It’s a staple for holidays like V-Day and Christmas. It bothers me almost every year. I’m surrounded by hot chocolate or chocolate chip cookies or flourless chocolate cake or little chocolate coins. Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate! But clearly we haven’t binged enough, because along comes Easter with its chocolate bunnies. Yelch.
And don’t get me started on chocolate martinis. That’s just ruining gin.