Candy

There is candy in my house. The jar in the living room keeps getting refilled with jelly beans, the good kind--Jelly Bellies. There is some chocolate left over from Valentine's Day, and a new unopened bag of Snickers bars. I have not eaten a single jelly bean or a bite of candy since Lent began. Like the young lawyer in Chekhov's story who bet he could stay locked in a room for 15 years, I sort of bet myself that I would not eat candy for 40 days. No one knows, or cares, though, and there are no millions wagered. Every once in a while I pass by the candy jar, and almost take one, but then I remember my solitary vow and leave the lid on the jar. However, that sets in motion the thought process that made me pledge myself to candy abstinence, and I come to realize how futile, senseless, and hollow are all the promises and oaths and rules and restrictions we adhere to in our society, when in the end they mean nothing at all. I may well, on the 39th day, follow the Chekhov character's lead, break a window, and escape into the night, leaving not a trace of my former self. I could just eat a jelly bean on Holy Saturday, but that seems like such an existentialist thing to do.