Guilty Pleasures

by Whitney A Jasinski

The Cost of Proper Nutrition While Traveling

*Sigh* It has been a 10-hour day of intense training for the new software roll-out at the headquarters of my company. I am on the East coast. It’s 9:00 pm (6:00 pm at home) and I have lots of time to kill before getting tired. I walk through the lobby of a grand hotel as if I’m a permanent fixture and know each bellhop by name. Reaching my sixth floor suite, I plop onto the king-size, down-filled bed with eight thick pillows just for myself. Just as usual, I get naked and slip into the freshly pressed hotel terry bathrobe, pack the complimentary soaps and shampoos into my suitcase and, just as usual, I dial room service. I feel a little sneaky as I peruse the dessert menu one last time to secure my decision. "Room service," a woman answers. "Yes…I’ll have the coconut ice cream, please." Having tried everything else on the menu by now, I wait in anticipation for that smooth, creamy scoop of heaven as if I were on the verge of finding the cure for cancer. There is a polite knock on the door. My eyes dart around nervously should my boss come leaping from behind the thick curtains at any moment. I open the door and a domed silver tray is waltzed into my room, complete with crystal goblet of fresh water and bud vase with a pink rose resting upon a lacy paper doily. There, in the midst of this extravagance, lies one golf ball sized scoop of coconut ice cream adorned with three flakes of toasted coconut. With tip and tax, it comes to $13.50. I smile gleefully and perhaps a little guiltily add it to my list of expensible charges for the company card. Under the section for meals, I enter "Dinner—$13.50." Business trip? Maybe.

The Little "White Gold Diamond Ring" Lie

A friend I haven’t seen in a while stops me at the mall, and we start chatting. A bolt of sunlight is shining through a skylight right into my eyes, so naturally I raise my left hand to cover them. As I do this, she suddenly ducks. "Something just sent a blinding flash in my eyes," she squints. "WHAT is that on your finger?!" I look at my hand nonchalantly and reply, "Oh, this? It’s my new wedding ring. I wasn’t happy with the way the old one was fitting." This statement is completely true. The center of this new ring is a round-cut one carat stone, surrounded by 0.3 carats of tiny small stones. It rests beautifully on a wide white gold band. "Is it real?" she gawks. "Of course it’s real!" I declare. "My husband only wanted the best for me." Little does she know that this gorgeous ring is made of real Moissanite stones, not real diamonds. I can’t help relishing the fact that she thinks I could afford to pay what she’s thinking I paid for it. Hee hee. If she can’t tell the difference, why should I tell her?

Mailbox Secrets

Every once in a while, we all deserve to get ourselves a little something nice in reward for our busy, stressed lives, don’t we? If only my husband, who doesn’t pay too much attention to the detailed report in our banking statements, realized how well I "reward" myself. In the slow hours of the workday, I surf the Net like anyone else. But my favorite hot spots are those that carry extremely overpriced, but oh–so–delicious clothes. Now this isn’t a daily indulgence by any means. I am truly not a horribly deceitful wife and I love my husband very much. But every once in a while I come across a sweet little wool sweater or a breathtaking embroidered coat that simply can’t live without me. With race car speed I dart in and out of "Blouses," "Skirts," and "Home Furnishings," checking off boxes along the way. I’m going too fast to notice the prices. Satisfied with my selections, I then dash across the finish line to "Checkout" and enter all of my billing information. Before my boss can say "You have lost all company Internet privileges,” I have entered my work address in place of the shipping address! You see, my husband works at home, and if he found out by way of the UPS man that I had just spent $148 (not including shipping) for a pink wool, bias-cut skirt with bead detail and scalloped hem—that I sincerely HOPE to fit into by December—he would kill me.

Whitney Jasinski does a lot of writing that she keeps to herself but is gradually starting to share it with others. Her "real" job is with an insurance company, but her dream job is writing poetry 24/7.