A siren's song did not echo through my kitchen this week.
And by siren, I don't mean the ear-piercing, hurry-up-and-get-out-of-the-house type. Oh no, I would have preferred that siren.
This siren was the mythological type. The sort that lures people off course and destroys their ability to think straight.
I could hear it from the freezer, beckoning me with its sweet, soothing song.
"Dawn… Dawn… I'm here. Come to me."
I did not cave.
I did not race to the freezer and embrace my tempter, deciding just a little bit would okay.
I did not place the carton of luscious sweet butter cream on the counter and in a half-dazed trance jab my spoon into the frozen delight.
In my delirium, I did not loose control of my hand and catapult the scoop of ice cream over the counter…
And into one of Orville's galoshes.
The sight of the frosty, snow white goodness inside a dirty, smelly rubber boot did not snap me out of my trance.
I did not reprimand myself with the words, "that's what you get for fudging on your diet."
I did not shove the carton to the back of the freezer and quickly wash away the evidence of my transgression.