Sugar High

“Here. Have this.” The little boy seated at table thirty-one smiles up at me, Devil on his shoulder wanting me to take the Warhead from his slightly sticky hand. A Warhead is a hard candy coated in sour. They make eyes water, cheeks pucker and paralyzes vocal cords in the middle of words. Eat too many and the inside of your mouth will ache, and the skin will begin to shed. There’s only one adult I know that can stand them, I’ve seen faces screw up anticipating that tart pellet on their tongue.

“Awesome. Lemon. My favorite.” I immediately open it, and pop it in my mouth. His parents cringe, I smile.

I’m the one adult I know that loves these things.

In fact, I love candy. All of it.

As a third grader I rode my bike to and from school. Michael and I used to try to find the longest way home, weaving our way through the neighborhood near our houses but never backtracking or taking the same road twice. Except on days when I had to stop at the dentist on the way home. Yes, that’s what we called it… stopping at the dentist.

Dr. Santamaria’s office was between school and home and it was terribly convenient for me to stop there to get some dental work done right after school. I would walk in, after locking my bike up outside, and the receptionist would greet me as if I was her very own seven-year-old. They never left me in the waiting room for long, but I could usually read a page or two of a “Highlights” magazine before the hygienist would call me in.

They gave me laughing gas with a scent I could choose before the Novocain shot. And Dr. Santamaria would get to work on whatever cavity they were filling that day.

I didn’t mind, dental work meant that I got to have whatever I wanted for dinner and I probably liked being high on the laughing gas too. Then my Mom decided that the fillings got out of control and I had to give up candy. That’s like making a heroine addict go cold turkey.

She hid my Easter candy from me.

Started giving us sugar free Kool-Aid.

And rationed my Halloween candy- only three pieces allowed a day. I’m pretty sure my Dad ate more of it than I did.

I went to the black market for my candy, sneaking to the gas station just outside the area I was allowed to ride in and buying huge pixie sticks, the kind that were two feet long and encased in plastic.

I spent quarters on fruit roll-ups at school.

I stole a pack of gum once.

I couldn’t be kept from my candy addiction.

Mrs. Perk gave me a whole bag of Jellybeans at my cousins wedding. She told me to share them with my sister. Right. I ate them all during the ceremony, and ended up crying because my stomach hurt so bad. Still, nothing could dampen my love of sugar.

The addiction has continued as an adult, even entering my professional life.

One day I sat in the sales office with my manager. He was a quiet man, and somewhat uncomfortable have a young woman working for him. Until I showed up with mallowcreme pumpkins. Turned out, he shared my sugar addiction.

We ate the whole bag. And giggled like little kids when other sales people walked in and asked what we were doing.

The sugar buzz was amazing. Making hang tags with permanent markers probably helped a little too.

I get excited when a new candy bar shows up in the checkout lane, though a little less so than I used to. Peanut allergies put a damper on being able to try new things—that label that says “May contain peanuts” stops me in my tracks now.

I tried a new skittle the other day; they were supposed to fizz. They did a little, but the fizzing didn’t distract me enough from the distinct flavor of soap that filled my mouth. I won’t be having them again.

I know that high fructose corn syrup is evil. I could be setting myself up for diabetes.

That doesn’t stop me.

I still eat sour patch kids till the inside of my mouth hurts, and keep a pitcher of Kool-Aid in my fridge.