A co-worker brought a box of candy bars into the office this week to sell on behalf of her kid. I greedily bought two, tucked one away in my snack drawer and ate the first one. A few minutes later the second one was calling for me. I ate it, too.
Apparently I’m no better than when I was a kid selling these. I’d go home with a box of delicious-smelling candy bars and they’d have to stay in my room so I could carefully guard the sales and number of candy bars. Those things would taunt me. I swear. I’d try to sleep and I’d hear them calling me. I’d even dream about them.
So, one night, I got up and ate a few. I regretted nothing, until I realized my candy bar to sales ratio was way off. I panicked. What was I going to do? Ask my mom for money? No, she’d just make me own up to theft. Tell my teacher the dog ate the dollar bills? No, she didn’t believe me when the dog ate my homework (and it REALLY did). I stayed up nearly all night, wondering if I was going to go to jail for theft. I was wondering what kid jail was like — and whether we’d get candy from time to time. I imagined myself being put in handcuffs, hauled off to jail until I was maybe 24 or so. (I’m serious, I was a dramatic kid).
The next morning after no sleep I finally managed to hatch a plan. I needed to come up with exactly $3 in change to pay for my candy bars. As soon as my mother left for work, I put my plan into action, digging through every single couch, little dish, the floor, under the couch, and even robbed my piggy bank. After later asking my mom if I could go through her car floor for change, I finally came up with $3.04.
I managed to stay out of jail.