Pulling welcome mat from under the Easter Bunny
REFLECTIONS
Since I’m a resident of the realm of geezers, I’ve been around for a whole bunch of Easter Sundays. And I’ve ingested tons of chocolate eggs and bunnies, not to mention a mountainous landfill of jellybeans and marshmallow chicks, on each and every one of those Easters.
My fingers would get so sticky from clutching candy that sometimes I’d inhale a bunny with one of my fingernails still attached to it. Surprisingly, a sugar high can somewhat mask the pain of losing a fingernail.
Indeed, Easter was sweet. Until this year. My wife has informed me there will be no Easter candy in the Zielinski household on March 31. Sadly, our dining room table won’t be populated with an Easter basket the size of a Lincoln Navigator.
That basket got more touches than a $20 bill in a streets crap game. I visited it so frequently I wore out the dining room carpet. To hide the damage, I covered it with a throw rug decorated with portraits of Hershey Kisses. Now I’ll have to cover the carpet and throw rug with a drop cloth because my tears will be gushing like Niagara Falls.
I’m already going through withdrawal. I worshiped all that candy so fervently over the years that our dining room glowed with an elegant cathedral-like ambience on Easter Sundays. This year our dining room will be wreathed in darkness even if Easter Day dawns bright and sunny. It just doesn’t seem right to have your soul crushed on a holy day all about resurrection.
Needless to say, I’m not happy about this. I reached out to the governor for a pardon but my plea for a stay of execution fell upon deaf ears. The gov apparently was preoccupied decorating Easter eggs. I consider not celebrating Easter by gobbling chocolate until nauseous to be a serious breach of etiquette, not to mention tradition.
Now mind you, my wife isn’t trying to be mean. She simply said as I play through the back nine holes of my life, I need to take better care of myself. And robotically popping coconut cream eggs into my mouth isn’t good for me.
Call it a philosophical disagreement, but I feel the way to stay young is to act young. If you ate Easter candy as a kid, eat Easter candy as an adult. Or risk being asked to pose for a portrait painting of Whistler’s mother’s grandfather.
Suffice it to say, I now feel officially old. In fact, I’ve begun to closely resemble an old hound dog. An old hound dog with an unsatisfied sweet tooth. An old hound dog whose ears and tongue droop to the floor.
Spending Easter without the Easter bunny is a jarring rite of passage for me. It’s an unwanted portal to a more sedate, safe life. No more yearning for a little danger, no more savoring the mischief of gorging myself on Easter candy.
What’s next? Astutely write a quickie memoir for posterity and then lie down for a dirt nap in a pastoral emerald field? I think not!
Don’t tell my wife, but I’m going to hook up with the Easter bunny and ask him to stash my Easter candy in the trunk of my car this year. Yours truly is planning an Easter Sunday drive and solitary picnic.
Mike Zielinski, a resident of Berks County, is a columnist, novelist, playwright and screenwriter.