The Popsicle Incident

So day seven is almost over! I guess the good thing about being sick all weekend is that I didn't feel like eating anything, not even Cheetos (though had someone set a bag in front of me I might be telling a different story). Plus I actually had plans this weekend (with actual people) so that was a welcome distraction. Not only was it nice to get out and talk to other human beings (not that I don't enjoy mixing corn starch with water to mimic glacial movement or exploring Catholic cemeteries by myself), but hanging out with my friends made me realize that there are other benefits to avoiding Cheetos besides not becoming physically ill. Allow me to explain with a story...


Unfortunately, the same red coating of "Cheeto dust" that makes Flamin' Hots irresistibly delicious also leaves behind embarrassing Cheeto evidence. My tongue and teeth are left bright red for several hours after finishing off a bag. But because I don't spend a lot of time looking at the inside of my mouth in the mirror, I was unaware that this happened every single time. That is until the Popsicle Incident. My sister and one of our friends (whom my roommate accurately nicknamed "the little one") came to visit me at college during my first year at U of I. We spent most of the weekend playing a game we invented called "Hi Dad". Basically, the little one sits somewhere reading a newspaper or looking busy in some way and when a guy walks by she looks up and says casually, "Hi Dad" and goes back to reading her paper. The reactions of the unsuspecting guys are hilarious. Most of them try and act like they didn't hear her but it is clear that they did because all of them instinctively jerk their heads to look at her when she calls them Dad. We also play with guys that pass us on the sidewalk and my favorite was when the little one said "Oh, hey Dad" to a middle-aged man who passed us with his family. He looked at the little one and his wife looked at him, both with the same puzzled expression. But that is not the story I meant to tell. So getting back to the real story of the Popsicle Incident, my sister and the little one spent the night on the floor of my dorm room and in the morning I fed them Flamin' Hots for breakfast because we didn't wake up early enough to make breakfast in the dining hall. We headed out of the dorm so I could give them an inside tour of campus and promptly ran into one of my friends. He told us he was coming back from the gym and I introduced him to my sister and the little one. Keep in mind that this was someone I was friends with but still didn't know very well since we had only been friends for part of a semester. We were still in that phase of trying to convey ourselves the way we wished to be interpreted as an individual through our every action and word. Well, I was at least, but then I often over think things. Anyway, after asking what our plans were for the day he looked at me and said,


"So...did you have a Popsicle for breakfast?"


Totally oblivious, I replied, "No..."


"Fruit Punch?"


"No...why are you-"


"Oh, you've been at the Cheetos again, haven't you?"


"How did you know?" I asked, still completely clueless.


"Your teeth are all red."


At that moment I wished I was anywhere but standing there looking like an idiot wiping my teeth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. 


"Yeah...well, see ya later." I said and abruptly crossed the street. 


When my sister and her friend caught up I turned around and whispered furiously at them. "Why didn't you tell me my teeth were all red!?"


"I swear I didn't notice," my sister said.


"I did," the little one said casually. 


"Why didn't you tell me?"


"I dunno."


I was slightly upset and hurt by the fact that the little one wouldn't warn me that I was about to walk outside looking like I had just chowed down on a live squirrel. But I had to forgive her when I came back from class later to find streamers adorning my bed and a colorful sign that said "True friends tell each other when they have Flamin' Hots in their teeth" and another that said "I'm sorry". 


But worse than the specks of red dust lining my gums is the consistent red discoloring of my fingertips. It doesn't matter how often or how vigorously I scrub my fingers. They are always a varying shade of red. Normally when meeting new people, I just pray that they don't go in for the handshake.  Card games with new people are also a nightmare, my unsightly fingers exposed and the object of attention whenever it's my turn to discard. So when I joined my friend and two of his friends at the auto show this weekend, I instinctively curled my hands into the ends of my jacket sleeves and ran my tongue over my teeth in a last second attempt to rid them of any evidence of Cheetos before introducing myself. And then I realized that I had nothing to be anxious about. For once, I didn't have to wonder if they were wondering if I had just eaten a cherry Popsicle or  fifty watermelon Jolly Ranchers. It was a relief. 


So, even though my stomach is rumbling and I want nothing more right now than to scarf down ten times the suggested serving size of Flamin' Hots, the knowledge that I don't have to live in shame--you know to be honest it really feels worth the red fingertips to be able to eat a bowl of mac n' cheese topped with Cheetos right now. But it is a small--very, very small--comfort to know that I don't have to live in fear of anymore Cheeto-based embarrassments in the near future.