Shortly before Thanksgiving, I started seeing my Facebook news feed fill up with articles about how to make healthy food choices during the holiday season. How to avoid weight gain. Why cookies will kill you, and why you need to step away from the eggnog and head to the gym.

I started seeing friends complain about the size of their thighs. They revealed the crushing guilt they feel from having that extra serving of mashed potatoes. They acknowledged that they’re suffering emotional damage from taste-testing the sugar-cookie dough.

And I say: Enough. Stop the guilt. Eat some fudge and feel happy about it.

I do try to eat mostly healthy foods most of the time, and I try to get in some exercise every day because I enjoy it. Am I a size 6? No. Am I healthy? Other than the myeloma, yes. It’s all about balance. Why not have a treat during the holidays? During the Christmas season, fudge brings me joy.

My own December tradition is to place an online order with a shop on Mackinac Island, Michigan, a place famous for its fudge. This year’s box arrived just a few days ago with five varieties of fudge: Chocolate, chocolate peanut butter, chocolate cookie crunch, chocolate walnut, and rocky road.

I remove just one flavor at a time, and store the rest in the freezer until I’m ready for it. Then I slowly nibble away at my fudge, savoring each bite, like Charlie Bucket in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I manage to share some of the fudge with my family, of course. I even have fudge orders shipped to friends in other parts of the country, because what is better than the gift of fudge? Um, nothing.

Is my yearly fudge habit going to make my thighs smaller? No. Is it going to be endorsed by the healthy-eating articles on Facebook? No. Is it going to bring me happiness? Heck, yeah.

And that’s the important thing here.  After I was diagnosed with smoldering myeloma in 2005, I started realizing what is worth worrying about and what’s not.

When my time comes – hopefully not for a long time – nobody is going to be standing over my grave, shaking his or her head sadly about the fact that I could never fit into a size 6.

MOURNER NUMBER ONE: I know she was a great wife, a wonderful mother, and a good friend who helped others, but it’s just terrible that she could never fit into skinny jeans.

MOURNER NUMBER TWO: Such a shame. Then her life would have had some meaning.

See? That will never happen! Once I realized this, I started giving other things the “standing over my grave” test. For example, will this scenario ever happen?

MOURNER NUMBER ONE: I hear she was funny, smart, and kind to animals. It’s just too bad her house wasn’t a little cleaner.

MOURNER NUMBER TWO: I heard she once put off vacuuming for a few days.

MOURNER NUMBER ONE: Wow. Such a terrible legacy to leave.

Try your own imaginary graveside test. It’s freeing. Once you’re gone, will anyone be shaking their head about the fact that you – to pick a completely random example that has never happened to me – procrastinated writing a column about myeloma because you couldn’t stop watching the Tori Spelling reality show? No! Nobody will care! Isn’t that awesome?

Will your obituary tell the story of how you once wore your workout pants inside out and didn’t notice until you’d returned home from the gym as well as several errands? Never!

Will your eulogy outline the time you – as a grown woman – secretly purchased the New Kids on the Block Christmas CD (containing the song “Funky, Funky Christmas”), put it in your own stocking and then acted all surprised on Christmas morning, like, “Wow, thanks, Santa! I never would have gone out and purchased this on my own!”

OK, maybe, but just to illustrate how charming you were.

And you come to realize that what folks will talk about over your grave are the big things: The fact that you always made time for your children and loved ones, that you treated them with kindness and understanding, and that you shared your fudge. That’s what matters.

Do you have your own personal fudge? Something that is “wrong” but brings you joy? Go do it, and do it now. And share it.

And have a funky, funky Christmas.