Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I like my chocolate; I always have. I'll eat a square most days (not a bar, but a single Dove milk-chocolate-with-almonds square,) and it makes me happy. One editor consoled me about my habit by reminding me that chocolate is a vegetable. Friends think nothing of it. I don't actually think that much of it, either (I cook entirely healthy meals, I exercise an hour most days, I am not a couch potato), but late last night, after a very long work day, I read an article on MSNBC titled, "Depressed? You must like chocolate."
Some facts for the curious: The study shows that "people who are depressed ate an average of 8.4 servings of chocolate per month, compared with 5.4 servings among those who were not. And people who had major depression based on results of a screening test ate even more—11.8 servings per month. A serving was considered to be one small bar, or 1 ounce (28 grams), of chocolate."
Excuse me, but, hello, please? Can some of us just like the taste of chocolate? Must we now be categorized within a new DSM-IV label? Will I need to go to chocolate therapy? Does it matter that I'm actually a pretty joyful person—utterly predictable and normative frustrations aside? I'm the kind of person who has to work hard to stop dancing. I'm the one of whom my husband always asks, Why are you smiling? I'm the one who smarter and sometimes famous people think boring because I don't have enough interesting troubles. I'm the one whom Jean, my former ballroom dance teacher until he up and left the country, gave up on altogether, dancing happy salsa with me as opposed to, say, trying to perfect my five-foot-four form.
I. Want. Answers.