They didn’t mean to do it. They were just there. A box of donuts. Sitting on top of my fridge. The white cardboard box staring back at me, practically calling my name.

“Jackie,” it whispered as I stood in the kitchen, snacking on a carrot that was about as satisfying as a dab of toothpaste.

“You know you want one.”

My stomach was churning, but I refused to walk over.

A half dozen Allie’s donuts inside the box. Mocking me. A day after the doctor told me I had gained a few pounds. They weren’t meant for me. They were just a sweet gesture from my husband while he was in North Kingstown.

They were lined up with their cute frosted, sprinkled heads. Bright pink, blue and yellow. Darling AND delicious, like decorated Easter eggs. They were waiting for me to bite into their moist, chewy, doughy selves.

Having one of these donuts is not considered snacking. It’s like an out of body experience.

Something happens to you. You realize that if you could eat them all day (without blowing up and going into cardiac arrest), there would be no need for men. I adore my husband. But this stuff is… like… buttah.

I mean, when it comes down to it, all we really need in life (aside from our loved ones) are frosted mounds of dough with holes in the middle. Sure, place me on a treadmill. Give me a few rounds of Tylenol from the sugar high. Make me run around the block while holding a box.

The satisfaction you get from biting into these unbelievably sweet, but not disgustingly sugary hole-less dough-balls, is like something I simply can’t write out loud.

But, like I told you, I went to the doctor’s and found out that I’ve gained a few pounds over the past year. Not a good thing when you’re 42.  Not 22, sweet Ms. Swift. 42.

So I promised myself to cut back on certain things. No, I’m not going on a fast.  Unfortunately, I eat AROUND THE CLOCK and always have. I jog and do Pilates too.

But unfortunately, I tend to eat a little too much. Which has caused me to get that roll around the middle when I try to squeeze into last year’s jeans. And shorts. And anything without an elastic waistband. And yes, I have that “crack” problem when I bend down too far in jeans.

My problem is, my whole life, I’ve exercised AND had a fast metabolism. I’ve pretty much been able to eat whatever the heck I want. Until now.

Your metabolism at 42 is like watching a tortoise chase a Tootsie Roll. It’s so slow, it’s torturous.
I once when on a protein diet. My body was in agony after six hours. I cracked and had one slice of bread. One slice. I GAINED weight that very night.

I mean, really?

Oh, what happened to the box of donuts?

It’s in the recycle bin now. The donuts? They are long gone.

What? Who? Me?

Oh, I wanted them. I craved them like Gossip Girl craves her first Gucci bag.

But guess what?

I did not eat a single donut.

I snacked on an apple.

Then hard candy.

Then 18 chocolate chips.

With a shaky hand, I cut the decorative dough-balls into squares.

Then I placed them on a platter. Opened the sliding glass door.

And gave them to all the kids playing in my backyard.