I consider myself a donut connoisseur. My only qualification for the fancy title is I like donuts. Love them, actually.

When I moved to Dublin, one of the first things I noticed while out and about was how many donut places there were. Seriously. I mentioned this once to my partner, who doesn’t have a sweet tooth, and she just stared at me blankly. How does one not notice donut shops?

So, imagine my surprise, when I was on my usual route to St. Stephen’s Green for my afternoon walk when I spied some donuts in a window. I’d walked by the shop countless times and never noticed them before. If you imagined my head whipping to the side, with my mouth dangling open, all the while ramming into a trash can and almost flipping over it, you’d be spot-on.

I straightened and kept walking as if that hadn’t happened.

I’ve been making changes to my life lately. Eating right. Exercising more. Getting to bed earlier. You know, all the stuff the so-called experts say I should do.

Part of me was proud of my recovery, and by that, I mean not marching into the shop to purchase a donut.

And if you think I stopped to buy one on my way home, you’d be wrong.

I bought three.

But I’m not completely at fault. On my way home, it started to pour. Dublin weather is capricious. I had to pop inside the donut shop during the deluge. And the woman behind the counter insisted I purchase a chai latte and donuts.

For the next two mornings, I skipped my usual fresh berries and yogurt, and had a donut with my tea. Then I went for extra-long walks.