And it's calling me.
"Eat me," it whispers through the door and across the living room. "Eat me, I am healthy, I am made with lean ground beef and turkey. I have onions and green peppers and spices. I have so many beans your colon won't know what do do with you.
"Eat me. Nobody will ever know."
But I will know.
And yes, I tell the chili in the fridge, you are healthy. But so are grapes and oranges and apples. One of those are fine, six of them at a time are not. One bowl of chili is healthy, two or three is not so much.
"But I'm tasty, I'm delicious, you will feel so much better for having eaten me."
For five minutes I might feel that initial rush of joy as my taste buds dance in spicy glee but I won't feel like that later. I won't feel good that I gave into mental cravings when I know I wasn't hungry. I would feel angry that I gave in because I was bored and I miss the memory of how good it tasted. I wouldn't be fulfilling my nutritional needs (that have already been fulfilled) but simply my own mental greed.
So I keep my hands busy. I knit, I type, I drink water and ice tea. I think about my plans for the weekend and even though the chili calls my name (it knows my name!) I say no.
You have no dominion over me.