The past couple of months have been, like, totally sweet.

It starts just after Halloween.

Random bowls of candy begin populating your workplace. As you saunter down the hall on the way to the fax machine, a scattering of high fructose morsels beckon you from the top surface of an orphan file cabinet.

A step-and-a-half to the right is all it takes as you clutch three Kit Kats and two boxes of Dots and escort your sweet new companions briskly back to your cubicle. The last of the fun-sized candy has either disappeared down your gullet or wedged between your molars before you’re done scanning the Perez Hilton homepage.

After a few days of constant exposure to sweets, you’ve developed a habit. Every day around three, with Rolex precision, you rise from your Herman Miller with sinister intentions. You’ve purposefully manufactured a trek to the copy room to retrieve some unneeded printouts, but your true mission is to troll for sugar the way Jack the Ripper sought out anything standing in the darkness wearing a bustier.

Orbiting the floor with your paperwork, you betray the appearance of legitimacy, but your head swivels with sugarlust. After one full revolution, you’ve come up empty. You realize that you're quivering. Merciful God, please, provide for this sinner! For the sake of all that is Peter Paul!

As you obligatorily scan the kitchenette on the lonely walk back to your snackless cubicle, a familiar pink shape stares back from the countertop. Stained with grease spots, its cardboard lid is crookedly stuck open. Your primitive brain stem instantly recognizes that the carton has been delivered to that familiar location where snacks go to die, so you stride into the room and peak into the void. The smell of hours-old sugar and lard leaps to greet you as your head bows to address the half eaten maple bar.

Since you're far too overwhelmed with work to dispose of the empty doughnut carton, you tear off half of the half, rationalizing that you're benevolently saving a quarter of the compressed, lumpy dough for a starving comrade. And for one afternoon, your sugary demon is held at bay.

As fall melds into early winter, holiday baked goods replace candy as the drugs most commonly available at work. This is fine. This is good. If an afternoon unexpectedly arises with no complimentary sweet snacks in your office, you have no compunction about abandoning the workplace for Starbucks and its offering of for-cash baked goods. You, sir have needs, and right now, a macaroon is more important than oxygen.

Christmas and the new year celebration have now come to pass, and your pants are tight. You dismiss this an anomaly caused by laundry overdrying, and by now, your blood sugar is so thick it could be tapped like a Vermont  tree. You're feeling sluggish. You’ve lost all discipline, and finally, finally, you resolve, you proclaim and you promise.

You shall shed some pounds.

As you wallow in your shame on that first Monday back at work, you wonder how this all happened. How could a fun sized Kit Kat trigger such a spiral of hedonism? 

You know what? It doesn't matter, because you're back in the saddle, baby. You're purchasing a one-way ticket to Svelt Land. By June, you're going to look like a 1967 version of William Shatner, without girdle.

Starting tomorrow. Someone just brought in a tin of Almond Roca from Costco.