And the "Bad Eater Award" goes to: the girl with the Sixlet hangover

This bad eater's slippery slope started with a Harbormaster.

And it ended with the ceremonious dumping of Sixlets, Flying Saucers and candy cigarettes into the household garbage.

See, I've fallen off the wellness wagon. In a hard way.

If my fall were more than just figurative, I'd be trapped supine in a full-body cast, drugged to the hilt, sipping pureed bologna through a straw and dictating my woes to a helpful, though grossly underpaid, hired nurse.

That's how severe this chuck-from-the-wagon was.

While I could blame myself - and admit to my own poor choices along the way - I find it more comforting to point fingers elsewhere. It really was my boss' fault, after all. It was his bright idea to conjure up a Harbormaster pizza from Portland Pie last Friday.

I mean, I was all set with my scrumptous spinach wrap. But you can't say "no" to the boss - not in times like these. My company's for sale, people, and I don't want to be recalled in meetings with the new owner as the employee who has a "team player" problem.

So I had a slice. Then another.

And all weekend it was a parade of processed cheese, deep-fried potato products and sugar candies in shapes inappropriate for a child's consumption.

And I'm not even a "sweets" person. You can salt my fries every night of the week, but someone else needs to take that Hershey bar home.

But then, there I was in some candy shop in Old Orchard, buying up goodies of yesteryear like I was stocking Willy Wonka's bomb shelter.

I had Sixlets and Dimples and those Flying Saucer things that melt in your mouth. I had chocolate cigarettes and Whoppers and those colorful candy dots on paper.

I rode a sturdy sugar high straight through to Monday morning, where I found myself crashed and burned on the floor of my family room - a Sixlet hangover too powerful to overcome.

I couldn't rally myself for the 7 am training session at The Landing.

Instead, I wavered in and out of consciousness throughout the morning.

When my sensibilities returned, I sought out my candy-coated nemesis. The leftovers teased me with each sugar freckle. They begged to be unrolled, doled out and consumed. They wanted to take the fast-track commuter train from wrapper to stomach to blood stream.

Instead those chocolaty remnants met the bottom of my trash barrel. You were fun while it lasted, my sweet friends, but you're no good for me.

With Satan's food now tossed, Spinach Wrap and I are free to pick up where we left off. It'll take time, of course, for me to regain his trust. But I think we've got a long and happy future together.