busted

3:00. Friday afternoon. I get an email from Patti in Accounting announcing the surprise arrival of DQ in our break room fridge. Dang. Here I am trying to be good when I'm accosted by a Buster Bar. I wasn't even hungry, just bored, and a type of bored that only layers of chocolate, nuts, and ice cream could fix. Of course I ate one, and it didn't even taste that great. Maybe it was the dull ache of my still-sore inner thighs (again, thanks bootcamp) that was ruining it for me. My thighs were trying to communicate something. Like, oh, I don't know, that ice cream kind of negated my week of workouts. As my friend Jolson would say, "Meh."