How it happened:

Perhaps the holidays have become a time for subtle brain wash. At this time of year, there is a certain lenience to eating the majority of one's diet from the "use sparingly" section of the food pyramid. We listen to raucous music about hippopotamuses, two front teeth, and the suggestion that Mommy is having an affair with Santa Claus (which, if Santa looked like Channing Tatum, Mommy's act of indecency is surely understood, wink...wink). We also justify bank-breaking purchases, and, as long as there's a little "giving" in the bag, too, those gratifying "these are for me" purchases can be easily acceptable. Maybe I'm just talking about me, here. Truth is, friends, I've never rocked around a Christmas tree, nor have I been kissed under the mistletoe. I just suffer from HBH. Holiday Brain Hiatus. Yes, I just made that up.
This drain on my brain, this weakness of my willpower is certainly a mystifying effect of the holidays. I refuse to think it is due to any other reason. I stare at the television mindlessly without watching the programming, I read the same pages of my book over and over again, and then, just today, an all new low:
I was looking into the refrigerator, trying to decide on what we might eat for dinner. It started off in the harmless, non-invasive way that the "fridge contemplation" typically does. Door open, one foot crossed over the other, left hand braced on freezer, furrowed brow. Everyone does it like that, right? Yes...until suddenly, the freezer door was ajar, and the left hand traveled all by itself to the inside and removed (without my notice, I assure you) a frozen Snickers bar. Then, ol' Righty chimed in, and helped it's partner open the wrapping, and lift the dreamy ice cream treat to my lips. My mouth did what it knows best, after that, and promptly consumed the Snickers...but here's the amazing part: I can't remember my eyes ever leaving the contents of the fridge.
No one said that the 12 days of Christmas are for eating. I just sort of invented that theory. For that matter, forget 12 days. That simply isn't enough time. Why not just begin at Thanksgiving and work your way through to New Year's Day? Isn't that what resolutions are for? I'll probably end up weighing about as much as eight maids a-milking, if I continue on this holiday nosh-fest.
I do have structured events in my life, meant to keep me on track. Things like school, grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc. are still present, and do force some routine into my day. However, during this time of year, I view those things as nuisances. They are cruel obligations that cut into my hot-cocoa and fuzzy slipper time.
Alas, my friends, do not be alarmed: I am fairly certain this HBH is completely curable, and like many viruses, will go away on its own. My guess is that it'll be over sometime in January, when the whole world comes back to reality. As for you, you may choose to fight it, or you are welcome to stop by, sample one of the goodies I am inevitably baking while I carelessly watch a sappy Christmas movie on Lifetime Movie Network. You do run the risk of contracting HBH, yourself. In fact, it's a strong possibility. Anyway, door's always open - just don't mind my drawstring pants and fuzzy slippers. You'll learn, in time, that they are pure necessity.