“You eat like a little kid,” my friend Megan told me the other day.
She’s mostly right. I would amend this to say I eat the way a little kid would if he were allowed to eat whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.
Cake for breakfast? Yup. Apple pie for lunch? Done it. Ice cream for dinner? Check.
But my sugary kryptonite is something else entirely: M&Ms.
My last year of college, my mom gave my brother and I (who were sharing an apartment) our dad’s M&M dispenser. My dad had kept this in his office for years, but because of his peanut allergy, he can’t actually eat M&Ms (of any kind, because they’re often produced in the same factory), so he eventually brought it home. We set it up in our living room and filled it up after my mother bought us a party bag of M&Ms,
after which we took her temperature even though she doesn’t buy candy, ever.
Let me tell you how well this worked for me. Ahem, not. I would do homework in my room, sitting on the floor, and I caught myself getting up approximately every minute or so to walk into the living room for a handful of M&Ms.
Thinking about how many football fields I would have to walk to burn them all off was not an effective deterrent.
4 football fields [apparently it takes walking around 1 to burn off 1 m&m] A photo posted by anniewiltse (@anniewiltse) on
We sell candy where I work and give the funds to charity, and people ask me all the time how we work with candy staring us down. Honestly, I usually forget it’s up there. Strange how a basket of candy practically in my face isn’t as tempting as the M&M dispenser across the room.
But I’m not judging you, 21-year-old Annie. Mostly because this is 24-year-old Annie’s guilty pleasure, too. Or really, guiltless pleasure. Ain’t no shame in my candy game. I take my M&Ms plain. A-Dubs in the house, rappin’ silent as a mouse. We out.
(Rap is another one of those guilty pleasures. It’s the Detroiter in me. M&M, Eminem? You feel me?)