Hot Pockets and Number OCD, Part 1 (The Hot Pocket Part)

I was asked to blog about my number OCD and also my love of Hot Pockets, so, as promised, here it is.  (Actually, I said I would blog about them in my previous post, and then I was asked after that, so I would have done it anyway.  But I prefer to say that I’m doing it because I’m such a magnanimous person.) 

I think I’m going to do this in two separate posts, because there’s no smooth transition to be made between warm, cheesy heaven and mental illness.  There's also not a whole lot of difference.  That being said, I’m hungry so let’s do Hot Pockets first, okay?   


I discovered the Hot Pocket when I was 19.  I was a sophomore in college, living in an on-campus apartment with five other girls and extremely pleased with myself  because I had lived in a dorm when I was a lowly frosh, but now I was Big Cheese.   

*Quick note about freshman year (this will be important in a minute so pay attention)- I did not have a car.  What I did have was a dorm room that was ten feet away from the dining hall, and a meal plan that let me eat there three times a day.  Sophomore year I had a car, and my apartment was located approximately one hundred million miles away from the dining hall.  Needless to say, I never set foot inside that building again.  

I am an extremely lazy person.  I totally could have walked to the DH for my meals, but I had my car and my own kitchen, so I was like “I’ll just buy groceries and make my own food like a real adult.  It will be fun!  I’ll eat healthy!”  Yeah right.  Enter the Hot Pocket.

The Hot Pocket, for those of you who grew up under a rock, (or North Korea or the former Soviet Union or some other place where having fun is against the law) is a delicious concoction of cheese and usually some kind of meat, wrapped in a pastry-type crust.  Biting into it is like biting into an angel straight out of Heaven made of chocolate and baby laughter all wrapped up in the moment that the Wizard of Oz turns from black-and-white to color.  Words cannot do it justice.    

But it can turn on you.

From my Hot Pocket diet (still the happiest nine months of my life) I went from 152 pounds to 170.  It has taken me FIVE YEARS to get rid of it.  And I still have three pounds to go.  So take a lesson, kids.  All things in moderation.  The Hot Pocket can be your best friend, or your worst enemy.  It all depends on how much will power you have.  For me, it is no easy thing to keep Beelzebub at the stave’s end.    

Okay that got a little dramatic.  It’s not cocaine or anything, it’s just a microwavable sandwich.