[dropcap]I [/dropcap]thank God for Twinkies. Why? Because before folks knew what yoga was, before anyone used words like, “eating clean,” or “Donald Trump,” we ate golden spongecake from Hostess. And we ate it because it made us feel better. It was part of growing up, a comfort food. Nobody told us Twinkies were Satanic.

But I guess they are.

Likewise, nobody told us growing up would be so hard, either. But it was. The process of becoming an adult is bone-stretching difficult. There’s no roadmap for it, and there’s no way of knowing when you’re past Twinkie-age.

At thirteen, my legs grew so fast my muscles and tendons couldn’t keep up. I laid in bed and cried from the aches. It made me walk funny. Much like a penguin who’d just ridden a stallion across the Sierra mountains. During this period – one I’d like to forget – they called me Corncob.

I went through another phase of life, when I was as uncoordinated as a cinder block. Overnight, I turned into a bumbling idiot. Whenever someone lobbed a football at me, I’d flail through the air like an elephant wearing blue jeans.

Still, the hardest part was the mental challenge of growing up. No matter who you were, popular or unpopular, it was hard. I don’t know anyone who didn’t struggle; who didn’t feel ugly, who didn’t wish God would’ve made them taller, slimmer, or better-looking.

You want to know why I still like Twinkies?

Because it doesn’t get any easier as an adult.

Illustration by Don Nice