The power went out one night a few weeks ago, right around the time I might have started to cook supper if I was a supper cooker, but I’m not. The hum of the world silenced and a heavy quiet settled – the TV faded to black and the fridge went to sleep. I had to use the glow of my cell phone to look for candles I knew I’d stashed somewhere and cursed the fact I couldn’t remember how to access the flashlight in the phone at a moment when such a feature might have proved useful.
I have a varied and fragrant collection of candles – the sudden gloom required all of them. I located a lighter in a junk drawer – I was surprised it still had juice, the last time this Bic had been flicked was to light something other than a candle. My house was immediately permeated with the heady aroma of cinnamon, fir needle and pear, grapefruit and citron. It was olfactory overload within seconds.
There is the quiet of an evening quiet and then there is power-out quiet – the latter is thick and a bit desperate. With only Chester to talk to I looked for something to help pass the time. I settled on eating my way through things that might spoil in the fridge should the outage last too long. I zeroed in on a half full bottle of wine.
Candle light and wine on a blustery winter night would be the recipe for romance if one was not alone – it’s a recipe for disaster otherwise. I found myself maudlin in the fashion of sentimental boozers, sad and sorry for myself, flipping through old pictures on my iPad and eating frozen cookies I’d baked to give away. I was shooting myself in the foot six ways to dawn and knew I would be sorry as soon as the power came on.
Chester doesn’t care if I break promises to myself – I don’t have to be sneaky about jumping off the wagon in front of him. But I know better – not better enough to pour the wine down the sink or to throw away the cookies, but better enough to know that I should. In the quiet and dark of the outage I was on the wrong side of the curtain between good intentions and sabotage, alone with my worst enemy.
I’ve written about the Goofys who sit on my shoulders before – the good one on the right, the bad one on the left – and how they whisper encouragements to forward their own agenda. Good Goofy has a heart of gold, Bad Goofy is all about wine, frozen cookies and sabotage – he had my full attention that night.
I love to point the finger at someone else when I take a wrong turn, Bad Goofy is an easy target. Alas, Bad and Good Goofy have one really large thing in common – me. When they start pointing fingers they’re aimed at the actual culprit.
By the time the power came back on the wine was gone, the fragrant candles had given me a headache, the dog needed to go out and the Goofys were in full swing. I tried to leave them at home as Chester and I headed out to face the tail end of the storm – they followed uninvited.
You would think I’d have learned a thing or two about self control over the years – apparently I am not a quick study – or even a slow study for that matter. What I have learned is I’m an opportunist, an any-excuse-will-do-ist. I decided there was only one way to tackle temptation – I ate the remainder of the cookies as soon as we got home before I could change my mind and set my sights on another tomorrow.