If it LOOKS sort of like a brownie than it must TASTE sort of like a brownie...NOT!!!

It was not my most mature moment. To be fair, I don't actually experience too many of those. Case in point, just that morning, the vending machine refused (out of pure vindictive spite) to accept my five dollar bill. Lately (as in, the past twenty years), I have developed the unfortunate habit of skipping over mild exclamations of unhappiness ("Oh snickerdoodles!" "Scooby-Doo!" "My stars!"), bypassing Level One stand-in curses ("Darn it!" "Shoot!" "Aw heck!"), vaulting COMPLETELY over the unladylike language that is associated with Level Two potty mouths and instead, head straight for the big guns of Level Three: Pure, unadulterated profanity. Unfortunately, while I was both verbally and physically assaulting the vending machine, I neglected to notice that the faculty room was not empty (Sorry, Felicia.).

After school, while I was again in the faculty room (Wait! Is this a common thread?), I heard the joyous noise of a blender. And we all know that that means one of two things: Chocolate milkshakes or margaritas! For the first time that day, I felt something akin to hope and happiness. I skipped over to my friend Michelle to investigate. I dispensed of all pretense of social protocol ("Hi. How are you? How was your day? You look pretty. ect.") and got straight to the point. "Is that a milkshake?" I asked pathetically. What's the point of pride and self-respect when dairy is on the line? "Sort of," she nodded, adorable pony-tail bobbing. I jerked back, reassessing the situation, realizing I'd missed some fundamental clues in my desperation for dessert. Ponytail. Stretchy-looking pants. Sneakers. Uh-oh. I began to back away slowly...avoiding eye contact...voice low and soothing. But it was too late. I'd been ensnared.

"Do you want to try some?" Michelle offered in a calm, gentle voice, "It tastes just like a brownie." RUN! my mind screamed. Unfortunately, I was too out-of-shape to run far. I wrinkled my nose, inching closer, like a cautious kitten. It did sort of resemble a chocolaty-like substance. "What's in it?" I asked warily, peering into her weird handheld blender contraption. "Sweet potatoes and protein powder." I stared at her incredulously before the vertigo struck. Ugh. She sighed, speaking firmly, as though to a preschooler, "Amy, you should try it. It's good for you. And it tastes just like a brownie."

I didn't want to do it. You know I didn't. I was being bullied...straight up. Shamed for my life choices. And of course I didn't believe that it would taste like a brownie but still...

She buzzed her witch's brew again before handing it to me. I'd watched a guy on YouTube eat a pre-packaged zebra tarantula earlier in the day so I figured I had this. I danced around a bit while Michelle rolled her eyes in exasperation. I flapped my hands like a southern bell about to consume a zebra tarantula. I channeled my best Matthew McConaughey: "All right...all right...all right." And then I took a shot. Fortunately, gagging and retching precluded my gut-instinct to resort to Level Three profanity. I lunged at the sink where Michelle was daintily cleaning her baby-food blender and I rinsed my mouth out with hot water, spitting into the sink with great gusto. "I don't think the protein powder was mixed up enough," I gasped, clinging to the counter weakly. "No, that's the oatmeal," Michelle told me, frowning as I spit some more.

When I could breath without the compulsion to barf, I wobbled out of the faculty room on limp legs in my attempt to get away from this nightmare. Except the nightmare followed me into my room with her perky little ponytail, spotted my one or two Pepsis scattered about the room, and began lecturing me on my lifestyle. My drawer full of marshmallow peeps pushed her over the edge. She threatened to compose a denture mold of Chiclets for me. She dramatically composed a list of the warning signs associated with diabetes and then departed.

In retrospect, it was a valuable life lesson for me. As opposed to mature moments, I actually experience LOTS of valuable life lessons. Often repeatedly because I don't tend to remember the original life lesson. This life lesson, summed up, is: Just because it's brown, don't assume, suspect, or even dare to HOPE that it tastes like a brownie. LOTS of things are brown and DON'T taste anything like a brownie. You know what I'm saying...I just don't want to use Level Two language.