Long before our beloved celebrities were hitting the yoga mats, I was navigating the world of Weight Watchers. I enjoyed the program because it allowed for some indulgences while managing my diet. I was like a covert agent on a mission to discover guilt-free sweets that fit within my daily points allowance. But one fateful day, my skills backfired—literally.
It was a beautiful summer Friday, and I was ready to leave my publishing job in the city at 1 p.m. Having stuck to my diet all week, I decided to take a detour to the drugstore for some candy reconnaissance. I stumbled upon a bag of Sugar-Free Jelly Belly Sours and eagerly checked the calorie count. At just 200 calories for the whole bag—only a few Weight Watchers points—I thought, “Score!”
Once I got to the office, I wasted no time and devoured the entire bag of jelly beans (yes, I know it was only 9:30 a.m.). They were delightful. But shortly after, I grabbed the empty bag to log the details into my Weight Watchers account and then I saw it—the ominous warning in a tiny red box on the back:
“WARNING: CONSUMPTION MAY CAUSE STOMACH DISCOMFORT AND/OR LAXATIVE EFFECT. INDIVIDUAL TOLERANCE WILL VARY; WE SUGGEST STARTING WITH 8 BEANS OR LESS.”
Wait—8 beans? Who eats just 8 jelly beans? Seriously, ask the person next to you or even anyone on public transport. I had just polished off 70 jelly beans, ten times the recommended amount.
I should have paid closer attention to the packaging, but a warning on candy? I didn’t think to look. If they were honest, they might as well label it “instant regret” with a note saying, “Prepare your intestines for a swift exit.” The sugar alcohol in these jelly beans can wreak havoc on your digestive system, and I was not immune.
Panic set in as I glanced at the clock. It was 11 a.m., and I was due to catch a train home at 1:30 p.m. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to use the restroom at work, so I briefly considered inducing a gag reflex to avoid an impending disaster. But that’s not my style—I love food too much to waste it. I convinced myself that if I could handle Taco Bell, I could survive some sugar-free jelly beans.
One o’clock came, and I felt fine. I boarded the Long Island Railroad, feeling optimistic. That is, until my stomach started gurgling. My strategy was to breathe deep, focus on music, and ignore the brewing storm within. For the first 30 minutes, I managed to keep it together, but halfway home, the cramps hit. It was time to elevate my situation to emergency status: CODE BROWN.
Minutes felt like hours as my stomach made noises reminiscent of an airplane toilet. And then it began. I was in full-on survival mode, gripping my seat as if the fate of the world rested on my ability to hold it together.
I made promises to the universe. The last 15 minutes of the ride were a blur. As we pulled into the station, I saw my husband waiting, revving the engine like a getaway driver. I jumped into the car, and we sped off.
Once home, I sprinted inside and barely made it to the bathroom. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say I expelled things from my body that felt like they’d been there since elementary school. I was sweaty and light-headed, but I survived. I leaned against the cold bathroom wall, thanking the heavens for my miraculous escape.
Since that day, I’ve become an advocate for reading labels. I even joke with friends about using these jelly beans as a pre-colonoscopy cleanse. They taste better than the alternatives and will certainly clear you out—trust me on that.
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Summary:
In a humorous yet cautionary tale, the author shares a personal experience involving sugar-free jelly beans that leads to an unexpected digestive crisis. The importance of reading product labels is emphasized, particularly regarding the potential laxative effects of sugar alcohols found in sugar-free candies.