Oatmeal for breakfast. Green tea.  Salad. Chicken. Tuna.  Salmon. I'm a pretty good eater.  It's not like I am snacking on pork sausage and Prosciutto ham all day long. I don't buy beef jerky at the Hess station.  It's not the bad food that trips me up.  It's the good desserts. 

Especially when dining out at a nice restaurant. What's incomprehensible to me is the idea of having a fantastic dinner without dessert. It finalizes the whole process.  OK, I can walk away from the dinner table now, I've had the cannoli.  Yes, dinner is now complete I've ordered the double fudge Oreo mud slide brownie sensation. Hooray!

As I near the end of an appetizer, my mind starts thinking about dessert possibilities. Yes, so soon.  Sometimes even while being seated or while passing other people's desserts.

Call it naughty by nature, but I'm down with OPD, yeah you know me!  And each and every time, my eyes light up when  someone just inquires about dessert. I nearly become childlike when they wheel out the dessert cart with viewable samples--be they plastic or edible--the thrill is always there.  If I happen to like the dessert or not, I will still find it stunning;  like a work of art, like a Picasso that needs to be stared at a good long time.

I never cease to oohhhhh and aahhhhh.... like I'm seeing a fireworks display at Disney.

By the end of a good meal, I am stuffed.  So stuffed I feel like I need to do what Uncle Louie always does at the Thanksgiving table, unbutton the trousers and sigh. But right now, one button isn't enough. I've got to unzip if I want to make room for  tartufo!  So what?  I entered the room a size 10, I'm leaving a size 12. I can't fit into my underwear which is growing ever increasingly tight, my ankles are bloated and I feel slightly nauseous.   Yet, I fantasize about a puffed pastry.

Then the waitress with a sparkling smile, asks the age old question "Would you like to see a dessert menu?"  Suddenly I become reinvigorated.  There is new born room in my pants. Yes, I believe Bill Cosby is right.  There is always room for jello...or cheesecake....or peach cobbler  or sweet potato pie... I always did like that guy.

So, I order dessert from the sparkling toothed waitress. I eat it.  All.  I'm in love (with the dessert, that is).  Love turns to hate as guilt seeps in.  The next day I eat right, work out harder, run an extra mile or two.  But indubitably dinner time comes around again that night, as it has done every night before.  And I find myself thinking----hmm, I wonder what's for dessert.

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