Intelligent Indulgence

I'm a recovering chocoholic. Once upon a time I could scarf down bars of high-fat milk chocolate that a friend would send me from Europe. Lindt bars with different fillings and Ritter Sport bars had a particularly short half life once they arrived to my home. My self-discipline disappeared as I tore into their elegant and shiny wrappers and mindlessly masticated the contents. In a bit of perverse logic, I convinced myself to quickly consume them so that they wouldn't be around to tempt me.

I wasn't always like that. As a child, I was able to stretch my stash of Halloween candy for up to six months. Back then, I knew that my parents would not budge and buy sweets the rest of the year so, like a squirrel, I'd hoard the stuff for a long New England winter. Perhaps it was this childhood "deprivation" that led me, in later life, to overindulge in sweets, particularly chocolate. And I'm sure I got hooked on the caffeine, theobromine and phenylethylamine and the other compounds found in chocolate, not to mention the sugar, which sent my energy level skyrocketing, and then plummeting. For a time I must have found this sugar-induced roller coaster ride exciting, if not addicting, but over time it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage my chocolate-enhanced moods.

Fast forward to September 2007, when I moved into my current apartment. I decided to treat this move as a fresh start, a chance to nurture some new habits and to discard some unproductive ones. I decided that I would not bring into the house any sweet edible substance that might pose the risk of overindulgence. In other words, jams, jelly and maple syrup were OK, as I consume these in moderation, but ice cream, cookies, cakes and candies were most definitely not OK. And I honored this rule for a few months until it became very cold and very dark, and I was convinced that I couldn't survive winter without the help of hot chocolate. Bringing sweetened cocoa powder into my apartment turned out to be a mistake. I'd typically drink the hot cocoa in the evening, and the caffeine and sugar would conspire to make it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. And even that little bit of sugar started to feel addictive.

And now I will get to the point of this posting. A fellow I met at my retreat told us about Dagoba chocolate, which he eats as part of his breakfast. Intrigued, I found some on sale at Whole Foods and promptly fell in love with this intelligent indulgence. Dagoba means temple of the gods, and the unfussy label, in addition to clearly stating the cacao content, subtly declares that Chocolate is sacred. Indeed. I first sampled the Xocolatl, a dark chocolate bar infused with cinnamon and enough chili to kick up some heat in my mouth. Its complex flavor demanded that I slow down to savor it. One segment of the bar was quite satisfying and I was not tempted to commit the sacrilege of carelessly consuming the whole thing at once. I also tried the Mon Cherri, which has hints of berries and vanilla. And tonight I have enjoyed some of the Lime bar, dark chocolate with lime and macadamia nuts. I get the most out of the experience if I treat the chocolate like a fine wine and take the time to appreciate its aroma before putting it in my mouth. I never knew mindfulness meditation could taste so good.

Indulgences, Intimacy, Impediments

The other night I got a phone call from a person who was in the middle of taking a bubble bath. Not just any bubble bath, but a green apple scented bubble bath. That is probably not the aroma I'd choose if I were to take a bubble bath, which I haven't done in years. This person - a man, actually - told me that he's in touch with his feminine side and regularly indulges himself in a hot bath. I think hot baths are a fabulous idea, and I even have a medicine cabinet with bath products from overseas, including bath tablets (Sprudelbad) from Germany in two scents: grapefruit-lime (for vitality) and vanilla-bergamot (antistress). These tablets have not only traveled across the Atlantic but have also been stored in two bathrooms and one attic over the years. I wonder if they are still good.

As I was saying, I think hot baths are a fabulous idea, and I often think this thought while traveling, figuring that, when I return home, I'll take a bath. But often, when I could really use a bath, it is simply too cold to get undressed to get into the tub. I'd rather stay fully clothed, rather than risk a wee chill en route to relaxation. But last night, one of the coldest we've had this year, as I warmed myself by a radiator and spoke to this person, I began to think about why I don't take baths.

"My bathtub is somewhat small," I explained, while trying not to imagine him in his green apple scented tub. I had had two dates with this person a week before; there had been a mildly flirtatious vibe going on between us but nothing much beyond that. He doesn't live around here and it seemed prudent to take things slowly. His decision to phone me while bathing came across as a unilateral acceleration of intimacy to which I wasn't completely receptive.

"If you don't take baths, what do you do to relax?" he asked. A fair question, I thought, but then I realized that I'm not particularly good at relaxing. Intense yoga helps, as does attending synagogue on Friday nights and meditation. But none of these activities feel like indulgences -
I see them as necessities, without which my stress level would escalate and become an enormous impediment to functioning.

Meanwhile, my foam covered friend pointed out that I was creating impediments to conversation by not being open enough to some of his questions. I don't disagree with his assessment. It's hard to pinpoint precisely when my defenses went up and why - perhaps a combination of his intensity, the geographic distance and the not insignificant difference in our ages - but towards the end of the long call, during which he had transitioned out of the tub, the good vibes had stopped flowing. There was no acrimony or anger, but the lightness had disappeared, much like the bubbles down his drain.

Indulgence or Investment?

A few years ago I wandered into a high-ceilinged boutique in SoHo, called Pastec, that was filled with boldly colorful clothing, accessories and housewares. Tightly knit striped scarves and socks were arrayed along a large wood table as if they were food at a banquet. They certainly looked good enough to eat. The yarn and the craftmanship screamed quality and the color combinations - inspired by Morocco and imagined by designer Valerie Barkowski - practically had me gasping in excitement. I kept browsing, touching the sweaters and blouses that hung on racks around the room. Peeking at the price tags, I nearly fainted.

But it was too late. I was smitten by this shop's exotic yet contemporary clothing and I was going to buy something.

I returned to the table and picked out a pair of cotton socks with stripes of pink, yellow, orange, blue and brown against a brick red background. They were $20, about four or five times what I typically pay for socks. The clerk behaved as if I had bought a high ticket item. He ceremoniously wrapped the socks in tissue and put the packet into a handsewn bag made of specialty paper embossed with Pastec's logo. I was delighted by my purchase, which felt like a huge indulgence at the time.

Last week, I wore these same socks when I traveled to New York. Notwithstanding dozens of washings and wearings, they had outlasted several pairs of socks from Target and other such places and had not even developed any thin spots or holes. My fashion indulgence had proved to be a wise investment.

Returning to Pastec last Wednesday, I thought I might up the ante and purchase something other than socks. But the prices of the scarves gave me pause, as did the triple digit tags on the sweaters. I decided to invest in two more pairs of socks. Despite inflation, they were still $20 a pair, a reasonable price indeed.