The Night I Stole a Hot Pocket

At 30 years old and gainfully employed, I was an unlikely food thief. But there I was, sitting outside on a warm summer night in 2007, devouring a Hot Pocket like I stole it. Because I had, in fact, stolen it.

Like all really juicy confessions, this one starts at work.

If you want to meet some really interesting folks, go get yourself a second shift proofreading job.

My supervisor was a novelist by day, manager of people by night. Another coworker was a professional crossword puzzle solver who competed all over the country. (But do proofreaders even work at offices anymore? Probably not.)

And then there was me, with my apparent penchant for frozen processed food. I was on a long-term temp assignment, having just walked away from a grueling corporate editor job. As a starry-eyed newlywed, I was happy to work second shift hours that synced with my then-husband’s wacky schedule.

The proofreading department was a skeleton crew, so we had to take staggered lunch breaks. As an introvert, I loved having 30 minutes to myself. I would often eat outside in the dark, listening to the crickets and staring up at the stars.

I don’t remember much about the night I stole the Hot Pocket from the work refrigerator. But here are the cold, hard facts.

---> I was heavily pregnant, but to blame my actions on cravings would not be accurate. I suffered from intense food aversions throughout that pregnancy. The only thing I “craved” was to give birth to that baby. But that night, someone else’s Hot Pocket sounded, well, tolerable.

---> The stolen Hot Pocket was most likely a pizza variety, because those are the only flavors I like.

---> The Hot Pocket I stole was from a large, rather anonymous case of Hot Pockets in the breakroom freezer. I do have my morals. I could never take food out of someone’s tomato-stained Tupperware or personalized lunch baggie.

Why did I sink so low? What is it about a Hot Pocket that I could not resist?

Was it the flaky crust made possible by the silver-lined cardboard sleeve? Or was it the sodium stearoyl lactylate and methylcellulose that no doubt benefited my growing fetus?

Perhaps it was the earworm advertisement jingle that I remembered from my Gen X childhood. “What are you gonna pick? Hot Pockets!” Hey, I was just a pregnant lady who wanted “a meal without a big deal.”

I had never stolen something before, and haven’t since. Honest. Scout’s honor.

How do I feel about this theft today?

Do I feel regretful? Not exactly. But do I feel… Embarrassed? Freaking stupid? Oh my gosh, yes. Talk about cruising through a weird intersection of unconventional work hours, pregnancy, and a short-lived villain arc.

Workplace food thieves are the lowest of the low. The butt of jokes. Punchlines.

Stealing food is not a good look for a grown-ass adult. That night back in 2007, I stood in front of the microwave for 90 seconds that stretched into eternity, praying no one else would walk into the break room. I rubbed my growing belly, waiting for the microwave to “ping.”

Do stolen Hot Pockets taste better? If memory serves me, yes.

I never got to make it up to my coworker.

If you’re reading this and you worked as a second shift proofreader for a financial company in 2007, I might owe you a Hot Pocket. My link is in my bio. Reach out and let me make good.

But I didn't get off easy. Karma is a relentless bitch. That baby I was pregnant with? He’s now 6ft 1in and eats Hot Pockets by the fistful.