When I was in elementary school, my friends and I spent recess wandering around the “upper grade field,” making garlands out of wildflowers, picking dry pieces of bark off of trees, and occasionally trying to send messages to each other with our minds.
In other words, I ran with the nerds.
One particular conversation we had during our flower-picking has stuck with me: We began to muse about what it would be like to be “grown up,” living in our own houses. (I don’t know if we realized that we’d live in apartments — we were pretty suburban.) My mom kept our kitchen pretty healthy, and I remember declaring that my kitchen would be full of wonderful candy: Gummy bears, sour worms, etc. etc.
And I was right, sort of. I have a bowl on my coffee table containing: gummy calcium chews, gummy women’s vitamins, gummy probiotics, and gummy fiber. Most of them taste… pretty foul.
Be careful what you wish for.
On the other hand, I keep a bag of Reese’s peanut butter baking chips in my fridge, just for snacking. So… my younger self might not be COMPLETELY let down by me.
Ugh, mental note to buy more Digestive Advantage. I think my stomach just decides to be mysteriously awful every six months now. As soon as I have my new insurance situation sorted out, I might finally make good on my threat to get a full food-allergy panel.
I just know I’m going to be allergic to fruit. I would gladly give up all the candies to be not-allergic to fruit.
So I guess I’m a grown-up, after all. Sorta.