Candy Shares

The first year my brother was overseas for Halloween, he sent me a package of candy. Okay. So. He sent the family a package. I thought it was for me. I was fourteen, had no friends, and thought he was being nice.

My only friend at the time was the girl I'd grown up with because she was one of my mom's in-home daycare kids. When she invited me to stay at her house for Halloween weekend, I jumped at the chance. The last thing I packed was that box of candy.

I had a Snickers bar and maybe a Milky Way, since nobody else liked them, while we watched Big on VHS. My friend and her sisters ate most everything else. We may have split a box of Hot Tamales. It was a long time ago, so who knows. What I do remember: sharing my candy made my friends happy.

Except it didn't last. The movie ended, the candy was gone, and I was awkward. Boom, weird silence and "Isn't it time for her to go home yet?" from the littlest sister.

Sharing my candy when I was a kid brought me nothing but shame and sadness. My parents were pissed I gave all that candy away. Their candy. I should have realized the candy was for the family. I failed a lot as a child because I couldn't read anyone's mind (and I couldn't see well enough to pick up on visual social cues). I think that's why my favorite super power would be mind-reading. It would save me all the awkward, and let me know people's expectations up front.

I didn't learn my lesson. I share candy with my coworkers today. Wintergreen Lifesavers. Peanut M&Ms. I like making people happy, sure, but I also like having candy available for me when I forget to bring my lunch.

Some people don't like Wintergreen Lifesavers and complain they make the rest of the candy taste like mint. All I can do is apologize and bring a separate bowl next time.