There is a gentleman in my office who eats breakfast nearly every morning at Empire State South, a Southern-modern, laid-back fancy kind of place. At least once or twice a week he buys me some sort of from-scratch confection – taffies, cinnamon rolls, danishes – and extends it like an offering as he walks through the office doors. While this ritual pleased me greatly in its earliest days, I’ve begun to despair at the effect it’s having upon my thighs. Despite my protests that I’m dieting, the goodies keep coming; I often clutch the pastry box and smile thankfully, wait for him to retire to his office, and then sneak to a nearby cubicle and gift the treat to someone else. Today, though, I opened the box to find three small pumpkin spiced doughnuts. I glanced between them and my coffee and gave up. It’s Friday, it’s autumn, and sometimes diet or no, you just have to sit back and enjoy it.

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