Before college I used to pride myself on my incredible willpower. Growing up, I never lost an argument. Not because I was always right but because I refused to lose. And if I made a promise I always followed through. My little sister and I had this understanding that we could deceive and prank each other, all in good fun of course, but if we promised something, (and here we specifically had to use the words "I promise") it meant we weren't messing around. I once told my friend that I could make a single gummy worm last an entire month and when she doubted me I promised I would do just that. I sucked on that colorful candy worm every day after school, placing it in a sandwich bag at night. My friend was so grossed out by the saliva-covered thing sitting in that plastic baggy that she begged me to just swallow it already. I refused. And after a month I forced down that lump of sugary goo with a smug smile on my face.
There was no challenge I could not conquer with my impressive discipline of mind. That is until I went away to college. As a public school kid, the dangers of peer pressure had been drilled into my head from a young age by my parents, teachers and D.A.R.E. But nothing can really prepare you for the mixture of new-found freedom and isolation from the real world that comes with college. You live, eat, party and study with your peers. You're safe from the responsibilities of adult life with the freedom to do whatever you want whenever you want. In this environment peer pressure runs rampant. Don't get me wrong, I didn't fall into any of the classic college pitfalls. I don't drink, have never touched drugs and my friends' idea of a wild party is blowing glow-in-the-dark bubbles in a crowded bathroom with the lights off. But there is one temptation that I was not prepared for. It's name is Flamin' Hot Cheetos. They are my passion and my downfall. I am a tragic hero brought down by my own pure love for this particular cheesy snack food. The first time I was introduced to Flamin' Hots, I was on a college visit at a small private school. I spent the night in one of the on-campus apartments with my student guide, a very nice senior in theology. We were sitting around the tiny common room of her apartment with her roommates watching CSI on DVD, when one of them opened up a big bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. Immediately, a starchy, spicy odor filled the small space. It was intoxicating. The bag was passed around and I grabbed a small handful, studying the bright red Cheetos with interest. I popped one in my mouth and my tongue tingled with every crunchy bite. They burned so good going down and I reached for handful after handful. That night as I shivered in my sleeping bag, lying on the floor crammed between a bed and a dresser, I thought about the way they coated my tongue in a flavor that compared to nothing I had ever tasted before. And I knew one thing to be true: I would never go back to regular Cheetos again. I was hooked.
In retrospect, I probably should have seen it coming. There is a video of one of my early birthday parties, I must have been seven or eight, where my friends and I are gathered around our old kitchen table. The remnants of pigs in blankets and french fries are strewn across the festive tablecloth and several simultaneous conversations are being shouted across the table. All of a sudden, and for no apparent reason, I sit up very straight and rigid in my chair, get this glazed-over look in my eyes, and shout "CHEETOS!" I begin to chant it, pumping my fist in the air, until all my friends join in. "CHEE-TOS! CHEE-TOS! CHEE-TOS!" And then suddenly it's Christmas and I'm passionately hugging a box of crayons that I had just pulled out of my stocking, saying in complete seriousness, "Just what I've always wanted! Thanks Santa!"
My Mom didn't keep chips in the house and so at first my Cheetos intake was limited to the times I convinced her to buy me one of the little bags of Flamin' Hots stacked by the register at Meijer. But soon I was living an hour away from home in my own dorm room where there were no food restrictions. And more importantly, my parents had let me take one of the family cars with me to college. My cousin and I had decided on the small Christian school together and she lived across the hall from me. Although our parents paid for our meal plans, we took weekly trips to the nearby Dominick's to supplement our diet of dorm food. Our grocery list consisted of: Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts, Milk, and Flamin' Hot Cheetos. Whenever we weren't in class we were in one of our rooms eating Cheetos. It didn't help that we seemed to lack the ability to make friends there (one time I saw two girls from one of my classes so I jogged up to them and said "Are you heading to chemistry too?" and one of them nodded and then they both sped up to get away from me-no joke) so that we had almost nothing to do except do our homework, watch "Rob and Big" and eat Cheetos. We quickly settled into a comfortable rate of finishing off one family sized bag every two days between the two of us. We bought them four bags at a time. We often skipped meals because we had no one to sit with anyways and just ate Cheetos for dinner. It only got worse from there.
After a year at that school I transferred to the University of Illinois where I actually managed to make some friends. Fortunately (or unfortunately as the case may actually be), our dorm building had a little mini store in the basement that we called "Late-Nite" because it was open mostly during the late hours of the night and because words are of course cooler when you leave some of the letters out. At Late-Nite, residents could use meal plan credits to purchase snacks, including bags of...yes...Flamin' Hot Cheetos. Because they only sold the individual snack bags my intake was at first limited but soon I was eating two bags at a time. But it wasn't until I moved out of the dorms and into an apartment that it really became apparent that I had a problem. Without the dining hall at my disposal I had to cook for myself. I quickly discovered that mac n' cheese mixed with Flamin' Hots was a delicious and easy meal. Without Late-Nite access I went back to buying big bags of Cheetos, and soon I was back to our old rate of four bags a week, only this time I didn't have my cousin to eat half the share. After a while it got so bad that I couldn't make it between our weekly Walmart trips and would go out of my way to stop by the gas station on the way home from class to pick up a bag. And I didn't even have a car . Knowing that nothing I could cook would taste as good as Cheetos I wouldn't even bother and would finish off an entire bag in one sitting. Often this would make me sick to my stomach and those things burn a lot more coming up than they do going down.
Needless to say I can no longer deny that I am wholly and seemingly helplessly addicted. So when my friend (and former roomie), Liz, challenged me to go a whole month without Flamin' Hots, I laughed and laughed and laughed. But she, being the true and wise friend that she is, kindly told me that she was worried that if I didn't detox my system I might very well die and insisted that I accept the challenge. So it's day two of thirty and I am fully committed to living Cheeto-free. And I hope that by documenting this journey of self-liberation for the world (or at least for Liz) to see that I will be able to hold myself accountable along the way. So bring on day three!
First!
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