My weight and my blood sugar levels indicate I should not even go near that Cinnamon roll.
I can’t help it.
The bun and I have developed our own telekinetic language where she is seducing me in ways I cannot write because it might be considered inappropriate.
‘Meet me at my center’ she says unapologetically, hinting at her gooey middle full of soft baked dough, creamy sugar and spicy cinnamon. She knows how to get to me.
I’ve just had a healthy egg white, cheese-less sandwich on multi-grain bread. I am full because I have followed this up with a tall cup of hot coffee.
But I made a mistake.
I sprinkled a little cinnamon into my coffee and I took my cinnamon supplement. Cinnamon is said to have some healing powers and I believe in the power of nature.
But the allure of cinnamon has been sprinkled, quite generously, over my taste buds and I am beginning to feel powerless as the muse sings her sweet song.
I look to the counter where she sits with her sisters, lounging in the tray, waiting for me to request her.
‘Come to me’ she says in a voice reminiscent of Disco Diva France Joli and I am haunted, tormented and tempted by her call.
I stand firm, holding my ground, closing my eyes and letting the cinnamon in my system satisfy the craving for her sin.
My stomach is reminding my brain that I am full. I don’t need her anymore. I don’t have to listen.
But her role is for me to give in to the roll.
And while I will not give in and my willpower will prevail, she knows that it is just a matter of time before I cave.
It might not be today or tomorrow, but my battles with cinnamon and her buns are far from over.
Her sweet song plays in my head and my backup singer taste buds are waiting for the
role roll of a lifetime.