Maybe the spring weather eroded my self-discipline. Or maybe the festive red-and-yellow umbrellas tipped the scales the day I was overcome by a sudden, inescapable craving for a dirty water hot dog. Heading up 3rd at about 48th Street, I clutched my husband by the wrist and pointed at the hotdog cart. “Come on, let’s get one!”
I shook my head emphatically. Negotiations concluded, the vendor swaddled the two hotdogs in foil, and my husband handed over $4.
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