Love my pumpkin pie

Of all my addictions and there are a few, such as Kakuro, “Modern Family,” hurrying, diet Coke (though I almost have that one conquered), and wheat (which controls every cell of my being) just to name a few, pumpkin pie made this time of year is the hardest one for me to control.
A pie pumpkin, by virtue of its very name, with its perfect size and brilliant colour and ready availability, makes it impossible to resist.
And, not to brag, but I do make a mean pumpkin pie. Don’t believe me? Ask anyone I might have shared a piece with. Unfortunately, the list is a small one (I think greedy comes in to play here).
Is making a pie every other day at this time of year considered excessive? Are there rules about such things; about eating that second piece of pie (such as no second piece allowed for two-and-a-half hours after eating the first?)
A rule of that nature would be along the lines of the old rule of no swimming until one hour after a meal. Was that really necessary, or was it an arbitrary rule placed on children so parents could feel they had some element of control?
It worked on me. I wouldn’t even wade into water up over my ankles as I was certain my meal, even if it were half an apple, would cause me to keel over and drown in the water that washed over my feet as I stood on the shore of Rainy Lake.
Or is it like the unnecessary precaution of turning off our cellular devices before take-off and landing, as if my text of “boy it’s crowded in here” could bring down an airliner (now there’s an old word: airliner).
Or in hospitals. I fear when I cheat and send a text while in a hospital, clearly posting signs that forbid the use of cellphones, that someone in the next room on a ventilator or undergoing surgery will have their life-saving machines malfunction and they would die—just because I decided to text that I am going to need a consumer loan to pay for parking in the hospital lot.
“Code Red! Code Red!” I would hear that and feel a crippling wave of guilt—and the urge to run or shout out about it not being my fault.
“It’s not me! It’s not me” while stuffing my phone into the bottom of my purse.
But pie. I don’t think there are any rules in place about the frequency of slices consumed. And if there were such a rule, would I follow it?
I used to struggle with going “in” the “out” door. Rebellion wasn’t my particular modus operandi. I was a bit of a conformist (that’s what happens when your mother is the principal of your school during the formative years).
I’ve eased up on rule-following in the latter half of my life, which, I am sorry to say, I am well launched into.
When I feel a rare sense of self-discipline raise its head, the resistance usually is toppled when I reflect upon the Titanic and those individuals who forewent the dessert cart the night the ship sank.
I can visualize these people raising their hands to decline a slice of carrot cake while the other hand checked the size of her waistline—just one final check in case she might reconsider.
As they were sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic, I would hazard a guess that self-discipline and forbearance would have seemed foolhardy in hindsight.
I could be swept out to sea at any given moment. I live on the Bay of Fundy, for crying out loud (okay, I live five km from the Bay of Fundy, but a second piece of pie might serve me well if a tsunami hit and I was forced to fight the power of the tides).
The pumpkin is rich in vital anti-oxidants and vitamins, though I fear the cup of brown sugar cancels that out.
What if I gave up the ice cream/whipping cream topping? No, that just borders on excessive martyrdom.