HEALTH THE SMUSHED-UP WATERLOGGED CANDY BAR TEST

Few vices have eluded me in my lifetime. From soft drinks to cigarettes, I’ve been addicted to more things than I care to mention. But I’ve been able to shed each habit by applying a healthy dose of will- power-with the ex- ception of chocolate. When I was pregnant with Ryan, I dutifully gave up my morning cup of coffee, I swore off aspirin, and I refused to touch wine. But I wouldn’t abstain from eating chocolate. In fact, I ate it with such gusto that my husband Steve was sure our son would be born clutching an M&M.

Since I’ve been old enough to buy my own, I doubt that a day has gone by that I haven’t indulged in chocolate of one sort or another. First it was nickel candy bars. Then ten- and twenty-five-cent candy bars. Then I graduated to Rocky Road ice cream and, later, I discovered the joys of Godiva.

Physically, chocolate has never really been a problem, I tell myself. At 5-4 and 105 pounds, I don’t worry about my weight. My cholesterol and blood pressure levels are super low. The surgeon general would applaud my grocery shopping habits, since I avoid Alar, tropical oils, red meat, and other poisons-of-the-week. So what’s the harm in a Snickers? It’s not as expensive as cigarettes, and I can polish off a six-pack without weaving on the highway. So why not reward myself for being so perfect in other ways?

But an incident occurred last winter that made me rethink my chocoholic tendencies. The roads were frozen over, schools were closed, and kids were sledding on our driveway. As we nestled by the fireplace, I prepared hot chocolate and noticed we were dangerously low on Dove Bars. My breathing became labored as I faced the possibility of having to navigate the icy streets to Tom Thumb-on the pretense of needing milk, bread, or some other necessity-just to have a supply of chocolate on hand. Luckily, I discovered I had the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. That got me safely through the storm.

That incident made me realize it was time to do something about this. So I made a deal with my husband: if I gave up chocolate, he would quit smoking. Neither one of us made it through the day. “Chocolate comes from the same place cocaine does,” Steve’s grandmother had once warned me. “And it’s just as addictive.” I chuckled at the time, but after this first-ever failure of willpower, I wondered if she knew something I didn’t. So when D suggested a story on the Schick Center-the haven for those who would throw off unhealthy habits-I quickly volunteered.

Though best known for its alcohol and drug cure, the Schick Center has a smoking and weight reduction program as well. With all their self-promoting hype, I assumed that signing up would be no problem. Instead, my call went to an answering service-not just once, but five times. A few weeks later, I got a call from John, who apologized profusely and blamed Schick’s popularity for the delay. “We’re booked solid,” he said. When he asked about my “problem,” I was embarrassed to hear myself confessing the need for a daily chocolate fix; I was tempted to lie and tell him I lace the candy with speed, or at least dip it in vodka. “Hey, don’t feel bad,” John insisted. “A lot of our clients are people who want to get rid of one troublesome food. It’s not as unusual as you might think.”

John explained the weight program as a three-part deal: a diet with supplements, behavior modification including advice on nutrition, and, finally, aversion therapy. Aversion therapy? John quickly explained that it would be the key to getting rid of my chocolate addiction. The same method-designed to work on all five senses-is used to successfully cure smokers and drug addicts. I can’t wait.

I had pictured a clinic-like setting with people in white jackets bustling about, so I am surprised to find the Schick Center housed in a drab and nearly deserted strip center near Stemmons. The waiting room ambience-a clock radio, a few posters, and brochures screaming “Schick is so sure . . .”-leaves a lot to be desired. John, an All-American type, greets me with a bounce to his step reminiscent of aerobic instructors who want you to know how fit they are. He hands me the clipboard with a questionnaire aimed at my weight history, eating habits, etc. The last page has a list of foods and I am asked to circle the ones that I can’t resist. Just reading it makes me hungry.

When we finally sit down to discuss my addiction, there is no pussyfooting around. He doesn’t care about who I am or what I do for a living. “Let’s talk about chocolate,” he says, leaning intently over his desk. I describe-in great detail, I might add-my life as a chocoholic. He nods sympathetically, especially as I describe my anxiety at not having an ample supply of chocolate available. John launches into a lecture on the symptoms of addiction-pausing dramatically as he talks about the supply theory. “The cigarette smoker always keeps a carton handy; the cocaine addict always knows where his next hit is coming from,” he says, “And you keep a stash of chocolate.”

The key to the Schick program, he says, is that it works on the subconscious. “We could tell you why chocolate isn’t good for you, but you already know all that. This program will make the desire for chocolate go away.”

How does this magic work? John takes me into a small room, past the Farrah Fawcett poster that reads “If you have your health, you have everything.” The imposing Detecto scale is the dominant element in the room, with pictures of vegetables and other healthy snacks scattered about the walls. John asks me to sit at the counter facing a mirror. He proudly points to a small machine called a “habit helper.”

“You rest your wrist right here,” he says, “and we turn it on.” He adjusts a dial. “Feel anything?” Yep. There’s a small electrical impulse, not painful but not pleasant either. To activate the impulse, the little finger on my other hand is attached to a string. When I pull it to put my hand to my mouth, I get zapped.

“Now this isn’t meant to hurt,” he says. “It isn’t an electric shock or anything. Just enough to be annoying. All your life you have associated chocolate with something good. This machine works on your subconscious, telling you that chocolate is bad.” It’s the old Pavlov theory and sounds hokey to me. But I’m going to keep an open mind.

Visit 1: I bring a bag of miniature Three Musketeers, assuming that whatever doesn’t get sacrificed in the session will be nice to munch on the way home. Cheryl, my personal trainer, hooks me up to the habit helper and quickly unwraps all sixteen candy bars, She piles them on a styrofoam plate, chatting nonstop about how much sugar is in each little bar. “Sixty calories,” she clucks. “In each bar.”

When the plate is arranged she asks me to take a whiff. “How does it smell?”

“Wonderful,” I admit.

For the next twenty minutes I sniff each piece, watching myself wince each time I get zapped. Cheryl flits into the room every so often with the same question: “How does it smell now?” After thirty minutes, the aroma has faded somewhat, but certainly not enough to make it unappetizing. Cheryl intends to take care of that. She crushes a couple of bars, instructing me to do the same.

Twenty minutes later I have built a chocolate snowman. Cheryl brings in a styrofoam cup filled with water. “Look at what happens,” she says, submerging blobs of chocolate. “It’s so full of preservatives and other junk that it doesn’t even dissolve. Do you want that in your stomach?” I am told to play in the water mess for another fifteen minutes or so. Finally, my hour is up and Cheryl returns.

“Sooooo,” she crows, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Are they still appealing?”

No. They’re definitely not. And I vow never to eat mushed-up, waterlogged chocolate bars again.

Visit 2: For lack of a better name, this is “Pulverize M&Ms Day.” Cheryl is late, so Pat takes over. M&Ms cannot be squished, so finally Pat digs out a drinking glass and attacks the candy, crushing it into tiny pieces. Once again, I smell the chocolate, play with it, and get zapped. Can I stand this monotony for an entire hour? Someone in a back room must share my thoughts because I hear Pat yell: “That’s the point. Cigarette smoking is boring.” On the way home I have a definite craving for a brownie.

Visit 3: I decide to bring brownies. I’ve eaten half a pan since my last session, so it seems the idea! choice. I know the routine so well that I can crank up the habit helper and start smelling by myself. Pat spends most of the hour trying to drum up business. I hear her talking sympathetically to one former client. Turns out the woman had a very difficult time going through the smoking program but finally quit. “She told me she gained eleven pounds and has started smoking again so she can lose weight,” Pat says.

As long as we’re on the subject, I mention that my visits to Schick don’t seem to be very productive so far. No problem, Pat tells me. Next time we’ll crumble up candy bars into a dirty ashtray.

Visit 4: Rachel, my two-year-old daughter, accompanies me on this visit. After I bribe her with some kisses (the chocolate kind), she settles down to read her book. The mingling of chocolate and stale cigarette odor is almost too much to stomach. Then Pat decides to add some warm water to make the smell get really bad.

Curious about what Mommy is playing with, Rachel climbs up to peer over my shoulder. “Oh no,” she cries. “Mommy make a big mess. It okay, I get a nappy kin.” I decide to leave before the full hour is up.

Visit 5: I’m eating more chocolate than I was before I started this program. When I report this to Pat, she assures me that I can keep coming beyond the customary six visits to get rid of my craving. The thought is frightening. I turn the zapper a little higher and concentrate on ridding myself of chocolate forever. Meanwhile Pat begins a psychological attack. “Maybe all those calories don’t bother you now,” she says. “But just wait until you turn forty. Then you can just apply those candy bars right to your hips.” I remind her that I will be forty in a few months. “Well, mid-forties then,” she continues, “and you won’t be able to lose those extra pounds as easily as you do now.”

Visit 6: This is it. I tell her to pull out all of the stops and give me the real hard-hitting treatment. No more mushing. No more ashtrays. I want something that really works. After conferring with John, Pat tells me that I am to take a bite of chocolate, chew it up a little, and spit it out onto the plate without swallowing. After the third bite I make a dash for the restroorn. Pat is thrilled. “This is nothing,” she confides. “You ought to see what happens when some really overweight people do this with pizza. Whooo boy! Just about kills the maids who have to clean up.” But as gross as the episode is, it makes me want to avoid the Schick Center, not chocolate. By evening I am baking chocolate cookies.

The Schick program did not work for me. When I confront John with the failure, he shifts the blame, comparing me to smokers who say they want to quit but keep a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand in case an anxiety attack hits. “For the program to work, you have to avoid it,” he says.

“But isn’t that why I went through the program?” I ask. “So that I wouldn’t have the desire anymore? Wasn’t the zapper supposed to work on my subconscious?”

There is a disgusted pause. “All I can tell you is that it works on 99.9 percent of the people we see,” he says. “Well be happy to let you continue at no charge for as long as you like. But we can’t guarantee you success.” In other words, if I’m planning to ask for a refund, forget it. Realizing that my Schick saga is finally finished, I celebrate- with a Hershey’s bar.