Yesterday was my twenty-third birthday, and the thing that stands out the most was not the love of friends and family or the passage of another year of my life. No. It was something far more powerful. I’m talking about cupcakes. While this kinja post may appear to be unnecessarily long for the topic of cupcakes, I have heard that it is therapeutic for trauma victims to talk about their painful experiences. So here it goes.
I am almost positive that I ate my weight in buttercream yesterday. I will be avoiding scales, pants with buttons, and anything that can be frosted (which is a shockingly large amount of things) for the next few decades.
I know you are all extremely interested in the battle between myself and cupcakes that occurred on Feb. 28, 2013, so let’s start at the beginning. I first became aware of the looming presence of cupcakes in the morning when I noticed that I was hungry, which usually occurs while I am still dreaming. Most days, this subconscious torture wakes me up before my alarm has the chance. When I felt those first birthday hunger pangs, I obviously had to eat the “chocolate chip pancake flavor Melissa Bakes cupcakes for breakfast. It was only appropriate. They were so tiny, adorable, and, seemingly, innocent. And it was my birthday! Looking back, I realize that the cupcakes had already won at this point.
As I walked to work with the rest of the 50 or so tiny cupcakes in my purse, I was happy to be taking them to the office where my many hungry coworkers would most likely consume them (and hopefully like me more). How naïve of me to assume that I could escape the cupcakes so easily. When I arrived at my desk after hiking up the three flights of stairs to the office (sweating so profusely that I had to go to the bathroom and dry myself off with paper towels) there they were: more cupcakes. They feigned innocence by hiding in a cute little pink box, but I was growing suspicious.
At around 11am (when I would normally eat a healthy, reasonably priced Trader Joes banana and have my second cup of coffee) the cupcakes attacked again. This time, it was a mini red velvet and its accomplice, the mini “pink velvet” cupcake of the month. I barely made it to lunch, during which I was confronted by the massive red velvet and carrot cake cupcakes that my apprenti ladies had brought for me. The list of victims was growing rapidly.
After lunch, the number of cupcakes I consumed becomes hazy. Somewhere between my second mini oreo cupcake and convincing myself that I had to at least try the chocolate peanut butter (“do you think it tastes like a reeses??”), they struck again (this time with singing). As I became aware of yet another ominous pink box making its way towards me (and the fact that my temperature was rising at a rapid, uncontrollable rate due to the fact that people were singing happy birthday to me), I waived the white flag. You win cupcakes. You have made me your bitch. I dutifully ate a classic white cake/chocolate buttercream frosting cupcake with sprinkles, an odd zebra-esq cupcake, and part of a double chocolate cupcake. What’s another three cupcakes when you’ve eaten 23?
It’s the day after my birthday, and the cupcakes are still exerting their dominance over my will-power and self-respect. There is still a pink box on top of my desk (I haven't had the courage to look inside), and there are exactly two tiny cupcakes sitting on the table in the middle of the office….correction, there is exactly half a mini cupcake sitting on the table in the middle of the office. We never stood a chance.