I didn’t mean to do it.

Every few nights for the past several weeks I’ve stuck my hand in the freezer, ignored the single remaining ice cream bar that belongs to my husband Jon, and grabbed my own non-fat blueberry swirl yogurt bar.

Don’t get me wrong, the yogurt tastes good. Just not the rich kind of good that paralyzes the tongue when fat and sugar are involved.

And last night as I repeated my ritual I saw Jon’s last bar shimmering under the freezer light like a Willie Wonka golden ticket (yes, it’s wrapped in gold paper). Before I had a chance to wrestle any hasty impulses into submission, my fingers called an audible and folded themselves around the contraband chocolate.

Only Jon was still awake. Would he care if I traded in my normal, healthy late night snack for a rare indulgence. Not at all. Making that indulgence his ice cream bar. His last ice cream bar?

Houston, we have a problem.

You’d think that knowledge would’ve made me put it back, or at least ask if he wouldn’t mind. On the contrary. Like a fugitive I stole away to the bathroom and turned on the water so he wouldn’t hear the crackle of extravagant paper being ripped open with tactless exuberance.

Then I sat on the counter, shamelessly gave thanks for my exceptional snack, and went to town on it with a smile stretching up to either side of my hairline.

And my-oh-my was it ever so good!

Any regrets? Just that Jon found said wrapper in the trash this morning before I’d had a chance to replace his stash with a new box. Given that my penalty was a shocked expression – a rather humorous one – I’d say it was worth it.

Now back to Zumba and Jillian and yogurt and berries, with pizza dreams and white chocolate wishes…and the occasional, intentional digression.