The Futility of Attempting to Escape the Debbul

I had to get away for something that resembled a vacation. I admit it, I was running. Like a limp dick fugitive cowering under the sad umbrella of a homespun witness protection program, an underground railroad away from the beast that hunts me day and night: SUGAR. Luscious, taboo, tasty, forbidden candy, cake, big 32-ounce convenience store cups of fizzy, icy Pepsi.

And of course since I was not vacationing in a cave in Northern Borneo, there was no escaping that sweet crystally debbul.

Everything got to me. On the 3 and a half hour plane ride to Phoenix, I had one of the cursed middle seats, trapped in that cramped limbo of being unable to sleep, unable to go pee and stretch my legs without waking the friendly-as-a-corpse tall guy next to me. And of course, unable to partake of my usual carry-on snacks: Reese Cups, Twizzlers, candy corn, because I can NO LONGER HAVE SUGAR. In my purse were healthy snackies. Almonds, raisins, an apple. Fuck.

I tried to focus. I read from one of the new textbooks I'm teaching with in the fall. Head down, elbows planted on the tray table, I read. For as long as I could take it. I did OK. I was focusing.

My neck started to hurt. I sat up straight. I glanced across the aisle, up 2 rows. A sweet little boy was coloring. It was cute. I watched him take out each cute little crayon, and do that cute tongue-in-the-corner-of-the-mouth thing that kids do when they're concentrating. Awww. He's so content, I thought. Then, with no warning whatsoever, before he had even finished coloring his picture of a tree with a panting dog sitting next to it, the little fucker pulled out a Nestle's Crunch Bar. And he started eating it. I couldn't move. It was like I had been watching a happy rodeo clown stomping around in his big zany yellow shoes, and then suddenly he started performing a vivisection on a pony. But I couldn't take my eyes away. The horribleness of not being able to have that candy bar was bad enough. But when the boy managed to cover most of his fingers with melty, intoxicating chocolate, I wanted to leap from my seat, knock the little bastard back to the exit row, and consume the last chunk of the Crunch bar, foil and all. And then I would dig into the little shithead's Spiderman backpack to find the rest of the stash I knew he was holding out.

But I did not leap. I sat there. Hating, once again, all people who are allowed candy. All who have not been exiled to No Candy Island, which I believe is just a quick boat trip from the Island of Misfit Toys. We are freaks, we islanders. And we'll join forces one day soon.