Never Pass Up A Gumball Machine

candy-gumball-machine

I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I eat my vegetables. In fact, lots of them. Organic, of course. I exercise regularly. I floss daily. I wash my hands borderline obsessively. And I almost never eat sugar.

Because my body is happiest this way.

But, damn it, I will not pass up a gumball machine. Never. Not ever. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have a quarter. I will find one.

That little gumball, full of sugar and artificial colors, sitting in that car wash reception area for months, is my ultimate counterweight. Freud might say that it feeds my destructive drive. Maybe, Sigmund. Maybe.

Maybe it’s just fun. Maybe those little gumballs yield the best bubbles. (And they do.) Or maybe it’s become a superstition.

I really don’t care. (That’s definitely my destructive drive talking.) I just know that a little ritual and a little balance is a pretty good thing.

P.S. If I weren’t hypoglycemic, the counterweight would be a donut. But that’s off the table for now.

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