The trouble began when Jim bought a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a bag of “fun size” Baby Ruths and promptly ate 3/4 of each before Halloween. While we’re lucky to get 6 or 7 trick or treaters at our door, staring at 22 mini candy offerings barely covering the bottom inch of our Halloween cauldron inspired visions of the Grinch. “We need more candy” I said.
Jim obtained 1 bag of “fun size” Almond Joys and 1 of York Peppermint Patties, filling the cauldron to a respectable level. And then we waited. And waited. And WAITED.
At 6:15 the doorbell rang and I pulled open the door to reveal a fireman, a dog that could only be named Spot, Darth Vader, and two pint size Disney Princesses. I encouraged each to take a handful of candy from the cauldron. And then we waited. And waited. And WAITED.
After an hour passed with nary a whisper of a ghoul, goblin, or Hannah Montana in sight, I realized that the earlier gathering represented every child that lived within a two-block radius of our home and I closed up shop.
The cauldron looked suspiciously full, as if the candy had multiplied while our backs were turned. To prevent further procreation, I transferred the candy into an air-tight gallon Ziploc bag. It filled it.
Why is it that mini and “fun-size” candies increase our capacity for eating them? I would never – well not since college – eat two full-size candy bars, but I can handily put away 4 mini Almond Joys, 2 “fun size” Baby Ruths, 1 Tootsie Roll and a York Peppermint Patty. Jim, who can even turn down a Dick’s Drive-in indulgence, was comatose and surrounded by mini candy wrappers when I arrived home from class last night. A friend, admitted to dining on them for breakfast.
What is the power of the mini candy to zap our self-control?