Sugar Squirts


I was very confused by the plastic bag full of empty sugar packets. I stood and stared for a few minutes, trying to work out an explanation that made sense. There weren’t even granules of leftover sugar, as though the packets had been vacuumed clean. What on earth? And why was this sitting on the kitchen counter?

A few days later, when the bag was long gone, I crossed paths with my roommate, and asked her it.

“Bess, what was with that bag of sugar packets?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to leave my trash there.”

“But, what’s with all the sugar packets?”

“I cleaned my room the other day. It won’t happen again.”

“That was a lot of sugar packets.”

“Yeah,” she said shyly, “I like sugar.”

Well, now. I like sugar, too, but wow.

Later on in the week, I help myself to my ice cream, the one marked with my name, and look at that, it was mostly gone. Dude. This was the first time I was getting to eat my ice cream and there were but a few spoonfuls left.

I decided to check what else she was eating of mine, and figured my baking supplies might be a good place to start. Sure enough, the baking sugar was depleted by a good two cups more than when I had last used it. The regular foods, the ones without high sugar content, were at their normal levels of usage. I found it interesting that her own non sugary foods looked untouched. I was pretty sure I was looking at the same boxes of cereal, cans of tuna, and the like, as when she had first moved in.

That evening I mention to her that I was disappointed to find my ice cream almost gone. Again, she was shy when admitting but apologized. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything about her sugar addiction because, honestly, I had no idea what to say. It was her health. I just wanted her to leave my food alone.

During a Sunday afternoon following the ice cream discussion, I made chocolate chip cookies and offered to share with Bess, but she rejected the offer by saying, “Thanks, but I like my sugar from the source.”

You don’t say.

Sometime later on, after I had forgotten about the sugar packets and the ice cream, and she had been better stocking her own sugar supplies, she returned home clutching her waist, doubled over, moaning. There was no doubt in my mind she had binged on sugar and her body was hating her for it. I asked if she needed anything, and she said on her way to the bathroom, “I think something is wrong with my stomach.”

The highlight of the sugar saga was an evening when my boyfriend was over for the night. I was fast asleep, but he had woken to the sound of what he described as an “Epic Episode.” His recount of the event is as follows.

The front door slammed shut. I heard running and then the bathroom door slamming. For the next hour, I heard moaning, squirting, grunting, splashing and calls for mercy.

As a light sleeper, I couldn’t believe I had slept through the grievous peril Bess had experienced. I could image what had happened, though; likely another sugar binge.

When Bess had crawled out of her bedroom later the next day, she looked like death. I asked if she was okay and she said, “I think I have diabetes or something.”

Poor Bess.