I’ve been this way for majority of my life. I don’t care for candy… or anything sweet for that matter. For a long time I wasn’t sure why but figured it wasn’t that big an issue. I mean, I like the cherry gummy things… But I don’t eat that stuff. Maybe I want to have a taste of them every now and then…
Look at them. Just look at them.
But I don’t.
Obviously I’ve started thinking about it. What could be behind this? I used to like ice cream until I worked at the Gracie Mansion for a summer and ended up scooping approximately 20,000 scoops of ice cream for the season. (I may be exaggerating) In any event, no more ice cream. Perhaps I am sensitive and easily traumatized Nah – can’t be, I’ve eaten poisoned Taco Bell and I will still go south of the border.
Well I think I have figured it out; I can trace my candy issue back to 1983 in Leimen, Germany. We lived above a little market area, bunch of cute little stores which I loved to look around in. Everybody was real nice as I recall, I had a lovely overall time living in Germany and I considered it home for many many years.
One day in the candy shop, I think I was having a bit of a struggle deciding what I wanted. Then from out of nowhere, the old wicked witch of a hag storekeeper devil woman was on me like white on rice… I guess I was rummaging a bit.
This is how I think she looked.
This woman smacked my hand like it was her final deed on this planet. I couldn’t believe it. I would have cursed her out had I known any curse words… instead I just stared at her for a couple seconds then called her an anti-Semite old bag. My dad chimed in to inform me that we weren’t Jewish. OK the last 17 words didn’t happen, but totally could have. After I stared at her I looked up at my dad with that expression.. you know the “how you gonna let this witch smack the color off my hand” look. This guy was smiling, my own father… my own flesh and blood, smiling at me. What happened to protecting me? What happened to never letting anything happen to me? I was innocent and defenseless, how could he?
Dear old pop, the great purveyor of life’s lessons.
So I did what any self-respecting, proud 3 year-old would do. I started crying.
COLDTONES 