The Big Addiction I'm Finally Admitting to in My 70s

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I am a candy addict. In my 70s, I finally had to admit it. There I was again, huddling on the ground, scooping up Lemonheads that had fallen to the floor. They looked so pretty, dozens of yellow pellets, broken and dusty, but still so delicious.

As I chewed and swallowed, their sweet and sour familiar flavor dissolved my worries, as I was thrown back into my youth, and a lifetime of love. For five glorious minutes, until they were gone, I was truly happy — until the guilt and shame moved in.

I can’t go on pretending to be the ever-smart and capable person many people believe me to be (especially my therapy clients). Though, when it comes to this hidden and guilty pleasure, I am not an admirable figurehead. (I am addicted to Lemonheads!)

Like any addict, the first step is to admit I have a problem. I admit it. While I lead a healthy lifestyle, eating the right foods and working out at a gym, this over-consumption of sugar is vile and dangerous — and I do know it is time to quit.

A half-century ago I stopped drinking, cold turkey, after one too many nights that resulted in nauseating, head-pounding hangovers. Alcohol, I realized, was my enemy and not my friend. No more holiday wine, no refreshing gin and tonics and no fruit-studded sangria passed my lips. I did not even join in the champagne toast at my wedding!

Addiction to candy is a whole other story. Sweets do feel like my friends. This love affair began long ago and was sanctioned in our home. As an only child of two older parents, I was cherished and adored, albeit differently by my mom and dad. My mother, an attorney, introduced me to museums, concerts and theatre. My father, a pharmacist who supervised a drugstore, came home daily with treasures: comic books and toiletries and, later, lipstick and even cigarettes.

But always, always, candy. I felt my mother’s love. I tasted my father’s love, literally. And, even now, 30 years after his passing, I still see him and feel him with every sweet bite.

My mother consistently presented nutritious, if boring, dinners for our family of three. Coming home from her law office, she would cook up some form of overdone meat, potatoes or Minute Rice, a hot vegetable and a salad of iceberg lettuce.

And no dessert.

Sundays my father brought home deli fare; bagels, pastrami, smoked turkey and a whole whitefish, its golden scales reflecting the sunlight beaming through the kitchen window. And a full bag of candy!

Excitedly and furiously, I hunted through the bag. There were chewy Bit-O-Honeys, pastel Smarties rolled tightly in cellophane, Necco candy wafers, black licorice and Jujubes, my favorite! Then there were sugar-dusted Chuckles, their bright colors matching their fruity taste. (I went for the red cherry one first!)

Of course, there was an abundance of chocolate treats, bite-sized Tootsie Rolls, Milk Duds with their luscious caramel fillings and Hershey’s basic chocolate bars. These beautiful bars were always a treat and my go-to cure for any disappointing day — and still are. I keep Hershey bars in my freezer for a chocolate fix any time of day.

Summers at overnight camp assured my popularity when packages of sweets arrived from my dad right from the start of the season. Cabin mates especially adored the Sweet Tarts and candy necklaces. Neither of my children inherited my sweet tooth and my late husband looked at candy as his passing childhood phase.

My addiction moved well past childhood and traveled, as often happens, underground. Never to be found in the grocery bags, I stored my contraband in my closet, in shoe boxes and sometimes in my car.

So I was closeted with my addiction well hidden from my family and friends. It was not even suspected, as I was healthy overall, and my weight was normal. Then, when my grandchildren were born, I outed my bags and bars of sweets and was proud to be called Candy Grandma during my frequent visits.

As the grandkids grew from pre-teens to teens and became interested in athletics, they apologetically refused my gifts. Primed by their coaches to avoid sweets, they started lecturing me about my habit!

Now, on the cusp of age 75, my addiction has caught up with me. Treatable but potentially serious heart problems necessitate starting a new diet free of salt, processed foods and sweets. No amount of cheating is allowed. I am strict with these rules, as I want to live to see my grandkids grow up, attend their graduations, a wedding or two and even hold a great-grandchild.

But, as I scrambled about on the kitchen floor gathering every last Lemonhead, I wondered; Can I really stay out of the candy aisles? Can I refuse the bowls of Hershey’s Kisses at Canasta games? Can a couple of Jolly Ranchers a day really hurt? Lord, I love those things.

It is time to quit, I know, I know. However, what makes this most difficult is that every type of candy, hard or soft, licorice or chocolate, brings my father back to me. And considering my candy consumption, my teeth aren’t too bad — and they are all my own.


Are any of you addicted to sweets or anything else? Let us know in the comments below.