I Hate Candy Canes

12-21-10

Snow is teasing school children, pine trees are leaning against grocery stores, and Christmas music is playing on a loop. Tis the season of giving…candy canes, that is, from overweight men dressed in Santa costumes.

I’m sitting in the Nashville airport after 12 hours of flying across continents and an ocean. It is 9:00pm here and 3:00am where I left. I’m doing good just sitting up straight and remaining conscious as I wait for my brother and little sister to pick me up and carry me home for the holidays, when I hear it, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Turning my head, I see them—two tired airport employees dressed like Mr. and Mrs. Clause, each carrying a basket of candy canes, and they are heading straight towards me.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas,” Santa says, handing me a candy cane.

“Merry Christmas,” I say. “Thank you,” and accept the candy cane.

“And what do you want for Christmas?”

“I’m just happy to be here.”

“But that’s not enough.”

“No, I’m just very happy to be here.”

He looks uncomfortable for a moment, but spotting a little kid, the duo moves on, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” echoing through the baggage claim.

I look down at the cellophane-coated candy cane in my hand. I have never liked candy canes. They are entirely too much candy, and they are always sticky, despite being unopened, making me wonder if the plastic is an extension of the candy or if the candy an extension of the plastic. Nevertheless, every year around Christmas, I am compelled to eat at least one candy cane, thinking, “This is the one! This is the candy cane that I will finally enjoy.”

Hopes high, I unwrap the plastic from the non-hooked end and begin sucking. Then I remember one important detail. I hate peppermint candy. My Mom loves peppermint candy, so the taste reminds me of her, which is a happy thought. But it does not change the fact that I hate peppermint candy. So after four minutes of sucking and wondering, “Why am I eating this?” the inevitable occurs: the end of the candy cane transforms into a lethal spear. It’s like holding a mini javelin between your teeth. And there is no way to avoid the spear from forming, because the only way to eat a candy cane is to suck it. I cannot bite it, because then the tacky pieces of candy stick inside the crannies of my teeth, forming images of diabolical dentist drills furiously boring into black, rotting cavities.

This candy cane is dead to me.

And then like I every year, I look down at the rejected, partially-eaten candy cane in my hand, and think, “I should save this for later.”

Why? Why would you ever want to save a candy cane for later? You know that you are not going to eat it later. You did not enjoy it in the first place. Why save it? Because I hate wasting food, even if it is plastic.

But the fact is, you can’t save a candy cane for later. Because by the time you decide to save it, drool has run down all sides of it, making the plastic that you would wrap it in all slobbery. Gross.

Buzz! My phone sounds.

“I’m here!” My brother screams.

“I’ll be right out!”

Waking out the door, I pass a trashcan and toss the candy cane inside, wiping my hand on my jeans.

Why do I do this?