It’s genetic

I have a crazy sweet tooth. No really. The amount of candy, ice cream and baked goods I could polish off if left to my own devices would probably kill a normal person or rocket them into instant diabetes. Lots of people say they have sweet tooths (teeth?) but I have yet to find someone who can hang with me. That is, except my dad.

Over the years we haven’t always gotten along and we’ve butted heads practically since I could speak but if there’s one thing that binds us it’s a serious love of candy.

Yesterday I came home to find a 21-pound box sitting in my living room. It had been Fedex’ed from Coral Gables, Florida so I knew instantly it was from home. I opened it to find basically the entire contents of a movie theater concession stand… and then some.

Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up folks

Candy bars like Butterfinger, Milky Way and Baby Ruth. Boxed candy like Milk Duds, Junior Mints and Whoppers. Old school faves like Boston Baked Beans, Charleston Chews and Mary Janes. There were Dots and Hot Tamales, Good & Plenty and Jujufruits. Then for good measure there were Ginger Snaps, Pepperidge Farm pirouettes, and not one, or two, but three jars of flavored peanut butter (White Chocolate Wonderful, Cinnamon Raisin Swirl and Dark Chocolate Dreams). My dad loves this stuff, all of it, and when my parents made me, you better believe that borderline obsession was passed down to me.

I’m both terribly excited and scared by this treasure trove of candy in my possession. It might take me a while (hopefully a good long while) to finish it, but how many hours a day am I going to have to spend at the gym to break even? How many sneakers will I burn down to nothing from running off all of this? Will two spinning classes a day be enough?

Ugh.

If you live in New York and we’re friends, please for the love of God, come over and let me share my candy stash with you.

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