I’m not a true died-in-the-wool, year-round chocoholic . . . and yet, when it comes to the day of red hearts and cupids, I go nuts for chocolate.  Sure, you could say that I’m just a puppet to marketing and a pawn in the game of retail consumerism.  And you’d be right; I am.  I admit it!  And I always have been — at least on this Saint’s day.

When I was a kid, I was thrilled when my parents gave me a Russell Stover’s heart-shaped cardboard box filled with an assortment of delightful mysteries.  As a young adult, I was happily showered with Hershey kisses and chocolate roses from various boyfriends.  And for many years with my first husband, I was treated to Belgian and Swiss specialty chocolates – an international pot pourri of heaven.  And if there was no man on the horizon bearing these delicacies, then I bought them for myself.

I know that I usually muse about impermanence, transitions, inevitable change, and endings . . . but I must confess to an enduring constant in my life, a seemingly permanent state of affairs: my devotion to chocolates during the bleak midwinter. 

Even a diagnosis of hypoglycemia (and the subsequent elimination of sugar from my diet) has not deterred me.  No!   I’ve already shamelessly scoped out and directed my husband, Dan, to a local chocolatier with a vast line of sugar free confections.  Oh the love of red-wrapped chocolates . . . maybe some things never do change.

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