I miss candy. I miss the way I used to feel about candy…see, now candy is such a complicated relationship for me. I know we should break up, I know it’s not good for me. I know that it’s never going to change, even when it keeps telling me ‘I’m sugar free!’ or ‘I have half the calories of a cheeseburger!’ Candy is what it is – it can’t really do anything about it. It’s my own fault for loving it the way I do.
But I miss the way it felt when I was still just a girl. When I was newly discovering candy. And it was all so – surprising. Varied. I remember the first time I tasted Pop Rocks. It was in front of our little town house we lived in for awhile, and we kids were all lined up on the curb with scabby knees and sticky Kool-aid fingers, hoping one of the adults would turn on the sprinklers for us so we could cool down. And my friend Christina said “Hey, I’ve got some Pop Rocks. Want some?”
Never before had I tasted such a thing. If one even really tastes Pop Rocks, that is. I mean sure, I’d already been experimenting with Lik M Aids. I had been eating Tootsie Pops for years and fake smoking Popeye cigarettes (the REAL ones, mind you, not those fake ones they have out now. The new ones don’t even have a red tip to make you feel like you’re really smoking!). Chocolate bars were already old friends of mine, especially Big Turks. Those were such a great deal, like licorice and chocolate in one.
But Pop Rocks…well, there’s just no going back after Pop Rocks. I laid back in the grass and let the chemistry experiment explode in my mouth, not tasting anything other than fizz and a faint bit of cherry but just knowing this was a big step. Pop Rocks are the French kissing of candy. No going back to a peck on the cheek after a really good French kiss.
After that it was no holds barred. I became a massive Sweet Tart junkie. I wore candy watches, candy necklaces and Ring Pops like I was Willy Wonka’s version of Elizabeth Taylor. I even got in to the hard stuff for awhile – black licorice cigars. That didn’t last though. Real black licorice tastes like dirt, even when they shape it into a cool cigar with little red sprinkles on the end.
Of course, my addiction was expensive. My allowance was only fifty cents. And my mother was forever trying to push broccoli or cauliflower on me. Luckily, I had a dealer. And I called him Grandpa. He was a Jersey Milk addict from way back, so he knew how to fix a girl up. We would go out ‘for a walk’ that always took us to the corner store. He would help himself to three or four of those Chunk bars that were always sitting by the cash register, and I would outfit myself with Red Hot Lips, Big Feet and purple candy shoelaces.
Candy was the universal language back then. If you met a new friend and didn’t know what to talk about, you could always mutter, “So, what do you think of those new Skor Bars? They’re something else, eh?” And your new friend would know exactly what sort of person you were. If you were fighting with your little brothers and felt really bad, nothing said ‘I’m sorry’ like some Bazooka Bubble Gum with the mini cartoons inside. And if you felt really bad, a Pop Shoppe Pop always sealed the deal.
Eventually, candy stopped seeming so mesmerizing. I ate it, sure, but it wasn’t the same. I might snack on some Cracker Jack when I was on the phone with a boy I liked, but I didn’t taste it. Not like when I was little. Candy wasn’t the side dish then. It was the main course, the whole point. And even though it was terrible for me, could have rotted my teeth and my brain…I miss it being the point. Because there was something incredibly sweet and innocent about it back then. Something pure. Something to look forward to, even on a rough day.
Something maybe even a little poetic about it. Like when there was a boy on your street you really liked and you didn’t know how to tell him and your stomach was in knots…half your box of Razzles said everything you needed to say.
I miss that.
But I miss the way it felt when I was still just a girl. When I was newly discovering candy. And it was all so – surprising. Varied. I remember the first time I tasted Pop Rocks. It was in front of our little town house we lived in for awhile, and we kids were all lined up on the curb with scabby knees and sticky Kool-aid fingers, hoping one of the adults would turn on the sprinklers for us so we could cool down. And my friend Christina said “Hey, I’ve got some Pop Rocks. Want some?”
Never before had I tasted such a thing. If one even really tastes Pop Rocks, that is. I mean sure, I’d already been experimenting with Lik M Aids. I had been eating Tootsie Pops for years and fake smoking Popeye cigarettes (the REAL ones, mind you, not those fake ones they have out now. The new ones don’t even have a red tip to make you feel like you’re really smoking!). Chocolate bars were already old friends of mine, especially Big Turks. Those were such a great deal, like licorice and chocolate in one.
But Pop Rocks…well, there’s just no going back after Pop Rocks. I laid back in the grass and let the chemistry experiment explode in my mouth, not tasting anything other than fizz and a faint bit of cherry but just knowing this was a big step. Pop Rocks are the French kissing of candy. No going back to a peck on the cheek after a really good French kiss.
After that it was no holds barred. I became a massive Sweet Tart junkie. I wore candy watches, candy necklaces and Ring Pops like I was Willy Wonka’s version of Elizabeth Taylor. I even got in to the hard stuff for awhile – black licorice cigars. That didn’t last though. Real black licorice tastes like dirt, even when they shape it into a cool cigar with little red sprinkles on the end.
Of course, my addiction was expensive. My allowance was only fifty cents. And my mother was forever trying to push broccoli or cauliflower on me. Luckily, I had a dealer. And I called him Grandpa. He was a Jersey Milk addict from way back, so he knew how to fix a girl up. We would go out ‘for a walk’ that always took us to the corner store. He would help himself to three or four of those Chunk bars that were always sitting by the cash register, and I would outfit myself with Red Hot Lips, Big Feet and purple candy shoelaces.
Candy was the universal language back then. If you met a new friend and didn’t know what to talk about, you could always mutter, “So, what do you think of those new Skor Bars? They’re something else, eh?” And your new friend would know exactly what sort of person you were. If you were fighting with your little brothers and felt really bad, nothing said ‘I’m sorry’ like some Bazooka Bubble Gum with the mini cartoons inside. And if you felt really bad, a Pop Shoppe Pop always sealed the deal.
Eventually, candy stopped seeming so mesmerizing. I ate it, sure, but it wasn’t the same. I might snack on some Cracker Jack when I was on the phone with a boy I liked, but I didn’t taste it. Not like when I was little. Candy wasn’t the side dish then. It was the main course, the whole point. And even though it was terrible for me, could have rotted my teeth and my brain…I miss it being the point. Because there was something incredibly sweet and innocent about it back then. Something pure. Something to look forward to, even on a rough day.
Something maybe even a little poetic about it. Like when there was a boy on your street you really liked and you didn’t know how to tell him and your stomach was in knots…half your box of Razzles said everything you needed to say.
I miss that.
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