I knew I shouldn’t have gone shopping so close to dinner. But it was the fabric store, for Pete’s sake; how much temptation could there be? As it turns out, plenty, since Willy Wonka’s evil twin has discovered that anywhere a woman is likely to wait in line is ground zero for a candy display. And where there’s candy, there’s chocolate.

Normally I can whisk by a candy display loaded with peanut butter cups, Kit Kat bars, and Almond Joys without so much as a flared nostril. I tell myself those glossy-packaged containers of high fructose corn syrup flavored with cocoa are mere imposters. Pseudo-chocolates. The candy equivalent of trashy paperback fiction only to be eaten as a last resort.

But this is what I learned while waiting in a long, long line behind a mom with four kids whining like a litter of kibble-deprived puppies: the candy peddlers have gotten wise to us. Now they’re stocking those roll-up hypoglycemic dispensers with the good stuff. Little Raffelo onsies. Slices of Godiva. Bite-size Dove. I zeroed in on a row of foil-wrapped Ghiradelli singles, and my eyes glistened. Little glints of light formed dancing stars, just like in Disney flicks when Snow White falls for Prince Charming. Only my heartthrob was a sliver of 60% cacao chocolate. My pleasure receptors went into overdrive. Endorphins started to flow. My pulse quickened. (ital) Was it getting hot in here, or what?

My resistance weakened as memories of chocolate rapture flashed across my neurons.

How many Friendly’s hot fudge sundaes had buoyed me through high school with its endless supply of loser boyfriends, acne breakouts, and dateless prom terror? Dozens.

Pregnancy cravings? McDonald’s chocolate milkshakes came to my rescue.

Even a root canal didn’t send me off the edge—it just gave me an excuse to wolf down half a pint of Triple Chocolate Chocolate ice cream.

In fact, I can’t think of any life crisis that wasn’t made more manageable with chocolate. Through crappy jobs, two divorces, single parenthood, hot flashes, and, quite possibly, a near nervous breakdown, chocolate had been my devoted friend, sympathetic therapist, and undemanding lover. Actually, the perfect man, minus the emotional drama and toilet paper debates.

My love affair with the dark stuff started to spiral out of control seven years ago when I decided to buy a condo. The stress turned me from an average chocoholic into a full-fledged, conscience-lacking junkie. “Honor boxes” of crispy bars began to disappear at work. Two-for-one sales on Tasty Kake cupcakes sent me into a hoarding frenzy. No child’s Easter basket or trick or treat bag was off limits.

Before I knew it, I was mainlining M&M’s for breakfast. When I realized my habit had crossed the line from guiltless diversion to consuming need, I knew I had to abandon my chocolate obsession once and for all. No 12 step program for me—I went cold turkey.

Or at least that was the plan until something freakishly ironic happened: chocolate became a health food. A health food! Turns out chocolate—the high quality, super decadent kind—is packed with flavonoids. Flavonoids protect us against free radicals which make our hearts flabby and our faces look like the plains of Nazca. Forget the Botox, the health gurus were saying, eat chocolate! Being post-menopausal and growing more decrepit by the minute, who was I to argue?

The years of resistance, self-denial and monumental willpower came crashing down right there at the fabric store. I stood transfixed, my hand drawn to the shiny wrapper like Dracula to blood.

I handed the cashier my pile of cut fabric, a pack of fusible hem tape, and the little envelope of contraband. She asked me if I wanted it in my bag and I said, as I ripped into the foil and sank my teeth into velvety sweetness, “It’s to go.”