You know, sometimes you just... you get to a certain point in life, and you're doing all the things you’re *supposed* to do. The professional smile, the polite answers, the whole song and dance for these office visitors. And you feel like a pretty good actress, really. Especially when you’ve got a secret that would probably make their eyes pop right out of their heads. Not a big secret, not really. Just… a secret. It started pretty innocently, I guess. You’re sitting there, the phones are ringing, people are walking in, and your stomach is rumbling a little. Lunch is still an hour away, but you had one of those breakfast bars that promised "sustained energy" but delivered about ten minutes of actual sustenance. And then you see it. This little bag, right there in your tote, leftover from a movie night with your grandniece. Gummy bears. Haribo, of course. None of that off-brand stuff. So you think, just one. Just one to tide me over. But you can't just open a bag of gummy bears in the middle of a bustling reception area. What would people think? *Professionalism*, Janice, remember professionalism. But the craving, you know? It’s a real thing. So you glance around, quick as a flash, and then you see it. The old, thick notebook you use for phone messages. The one with the broken spine that you've been meaning to toss but never got around to. And that’s when the genius strikes, or maybe it was just the sugar craving talking. You get a letter opener from the drawer – the fancy kind with the heavy handle – and you carefully, *oh so carefully*, start hollowing out the pages. Just a little bit at first. Enough for a small handful of those glorious, chewy treats. You work on it during your lunch break, when no one's around, pretending to be utterly engrossed in "filing." The satisfying rip of paper, the little dust clouds… it felt almost illicit. Like I was building a secret tunnel to an underground candy kingdom. The first time I pulled one out during a particularly long, rambling phone call… oh, the rush. You’re nodding, you’re saying "Mmm-hmm," you’re typing notes, and all the while, your fingers are delicately fishing for a green one, a red one. The texture, the taste – it’s a little burst of joy. A tiny, quiet rebellion. And no one, absolutely NO ONE, ever suspects. They just see the stoic, competent receptionist. The woman who's got it all together. But sometimes, when I'm alone late at night, prepping for the next gig, or staring at my dwindling bank account, I think about it. This little stash of gummy bears. It feels… like a metaphor, almost. For everything. Like, you’re supposed to be this polished, put-together person. But underneath, there's this hollowed-out space, and you’re just filling it with whatever sweet, small thing you can get your hands on to get through the day. I mean I don't even— whatever. It's just gummy bears. It’s silly, right? To feel this… *guilty* about candy? But it’s not just the candy. It’s the elaborate deception, the constant vigilance. The way you have to keep up appearances, even for something as small as a handful of fruit-flavored gelatin. You spend your whole life trying to be seen as reliable, dependable, someone who doesn't *need* to sneak things. Someone who has her own benefits, her own solid retirement plan. And then you’re 60 and you’re still working gig to gig, still making sure you look perfectly professional while secretly eating gummy bears from a hollowed-out notebook. And sometimes, when a particularly pompous client comes in, or a boss makes one of those patronizing comments about "millennials and their avocado toast," I just look at my notebook. And I think, *you have no idea*. You have absolutely no idea what’s really going on behind this smile. And it's not a big scandal, it's not going to change the world, but it’s MINE. And maybe that's enough. Maybe. The thing is, it’s not just about the sugar. It’s about the control, I guess. The one thing I can control in a day that’s otherwise entirely dictated by someone else’s schedule, someone else’s demands. A little moment of quiet defiance. A tiny, sweet "F-you" to the universe. And then I answer the phone, "Good morning, thank you for calling," and the cycle continues. And the notebook waits. Always waits.