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I have quite the affinity for bagels. Some might call it a “problem,” an “addiction” even…but I don’t really like labels.
Avid Dish and Drink readers might recall that I once dumped a boy because he told me that he didn’t really like bagels.
Usually I don’t advocate for burning bridges over innocuous disagreements; but that’s exactly the point. This was not a harmless difference of opinion–it hurt me to the core of my very being.
As you can imagine, this love affair has tended to bring me to my local bagel place a minimum of twice a week. But that was then; when the bagel shop was two blocks away. As of a couple of days ago, I moved into the very same building where my bagel bakery is housed. I now live a mere six flights above my carbohydrate kryptonite.
This could go one of two ways:
The first is that my bagel habit spirals out of control, and I find myself eating bagels for breakfast, lunch, and dinner nearly every day of the week. My grocery shopping would dwindle into nothingness as I simply visit the bagel place for all of my earthly wants (they’ve got fish, dairy, bacon egg and cheeses, avocado, coffee…I mean honestly, what else does a girl need?)
The second, and perhaps more horrifying of the two, is that my proximity to the source of the bagels has an adverse effect…that rather than increasing my cravings, it tempers them, decreasing their frequency from outrageously often to reasonably sporadic–or worse, purely occasional.
Or maybe, just maybe, things will simply stay the same, balancing at equilibrium. It’s really out of my control, though. The first step is admitting that you’re powerless.