There is a candy jar at work that may as well be my glove seeing as my hand is constantly seeking shelter in its sweet contents. It's cleverly labeled "eat me" and when you have directions that simple you feel bound to oblige. Instead of counting down the time till work ends I'm usually contemplating how much time should pass before it's socially acceptable to get more candy. When the downstairs jar is down to the bottom, filled with the relegated, reject candy (ambiguous hard candies, stray sugar packets, an encrusted skittles or two), I often shamefully sneak upstairs to the office jar. Just doing my part to keep management lean and cavity-free I tell myself.
At this point I'm really just waiting for the diabetes diagnosis.