Not-So-Good Good Friday
Take a trip back in time with me, to April 13th, 1990. In case you’re not a super calendar genius, that was Good Friday and also Friday the 13th.
I’m not an incredibly superstitious person, but boy-howdy, was that a bad day for me.
It was the last day of school before Spring Break and my first grade teacher (the spectacularly fantastic Ms. Simon) had set up a big ‘ole Easter party for us. We had all kinds of goodies and it was the first time I had ever tried Whoppers Malted Milk Balls.
Why this was significant, you shall soon find out.
After school, my family and I headed to the grocery store. My stomach wasn’t feeling so awesome and I figured I had eaten too much candy. I remember I had my long, bright pink coat on backward, the hood directly under my face. I remember the smells of the grocery store, the way looking at any food made my stomach turn. I remember being in the middle of the store, too far from the bathrooms for my comfort level and telling my mom I had to go… bad.
Usually, I wasn’t allowed to head to the bathrooms by myself and I distinctly remember worrying that I was going to get into trouble for running away from my family, but the nagging at my stomach pressed me onward.
Not two seconds after opening the bathroom door, I started ralphing into my hood.
Another second later, I realized I was staring directly at a bunch of dudes at urinals.
Wrong bathroom!
I heard a man ask, “Honey, are you okay? Where’s your Mo-” but I ran out of the bathroom before he could finish his sentence.
Still spewing, I turned around and headed for the women’s bathroom. The hood of my coat was overflowing with yuck and I left a nasty trail of it from the guy’s bathroom all the way to the women’s, finally ending at the toilet where I stood for quite a while revisiting my Easter party food and lunch. (I remember carrots, oddly enough…)
Meanwhile, there were ladies outside of my stall asking if I was okay, asking where my mom was so they could call her.
It was a seven-year-old girl’s most embarrassing nightmare. I heard a guy on the loud speaker unenthusiastically call out, “Clean up assistance needed in the bathrooms.”
My mom had also heard the call and knew it was for me.
Somehow, I left the bathroom, though my dignity was most definitely not in tact, despite the sympathetic eyes of strangers. The whole drive home, I held a plastic grocery bag in front of me, smelling that yucky grocery store smell all over again.
I went back to that store twice after that day. Both times, I got sick in one way or another while I was there. I think maybe it’s cursed.
(And, maybe I’m more superstitious than I thought…)
So, yesterday, the kids were given some Easter Egg Whoppers.
“Certainly I’m over that traumatic memory,” I thought, popping a couple into my mouth…
…and then subsequently spitting them out.
Nope, still hate them. Malted milk balls, blech, blah, pah-tooie!
So, April 13th, 1990 was not such a good Good Friday. This year, however, it’s going great. We had some new friends over for a play date, had a wonderful time chatting and hanging out, today is my friend Allison’s 30th (Happy Birthday, Allison!!), and we have a fun weekend ahead of us.
No Whoppers, though. I could be wrong, but I think the devil created Whoppers.
(My distaste for Whoppers is so great, in fact, that I couldn’t even bear to use a picture of them for this entry. *Shudder* Whoppers.)
Photo Credit: Chocolate Easter Eggs 1 by essie82
Source: sxc.hu
