Irish author Oscar Wilde, was famously quoted as saying: “The optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist sees the hole.” I, however, prefer to see neither. Thanks to an incident from a summer day camp when I was six years old, I have “doughnut disgust”—a permanent aversion to doughnuts. Now I know what you’re thinking. Steph’s got another one of her summer camp dramas to share. Fine, I do. But, hopefully, you’ll find today’s tale of woe both amusing and enlightening.
The quick version of my saga is that right after I ate a doughnut, I did something somewhat foolish and instantly regretted it. And, of course, from this terrible experience, I have a life lesson to share: a negativity bias caused by regret serves a powerful purpose. By reflecting on your mistakes, you can better define your future boundaries and choices. In my case, the memory of my regret is the reason why I’ve sworn off doughnuts for all of eternity. (Though I suppose my waistline is thankful.)
Here’s what happened…
Happy camper
Having mastered the art of separation in kindergarten, I was all set for a few hours of independence at Greenvale Day Camp in the summer of 1980. The camp was based in Greenvale Park, about fifteen minutes from our house. This park just so happened to be the same place where I played soccer during the school year, so it already had a lot going for it.
For six-year-old me, Greenvale Day Camp was a junior sports lover’s dream come true. In addition to the soccer fields, the park also touted a huge baseball diamond, a basketball court, and something called a pavilion. I didn’t know what sport the pavilion corresponded to, but that’s where kids got picked up and dropped off. While I’m sure the camp had other offerings like arts and crafts or nature activities, I was sold on the sports focus. My mother was probably sold on the seven hours of reasonably priced supervision by someone other than herself.
As long as it didn’t rain (the camp was entirely outdoors), Greenvale Day Camp seemed like it had it all.
That is, until the day I developed my doughnut disgust.
Make a run for it
Honestly, too much time has passed for me to take you through the exact details of the day my doughnut disgust began, so I’ll fast forward. I distinctly recall we had some free time in the late morning. We happened to be near the baseball diamond but didn’t have a bat or a ball. So, the next best thing to do when you’re on a baseball field without baseball equipment is to play tag or some other running-based activity. We’d likely exhausted tag when someone came up with the genius idea of racing around the bases.
I don’t remember who came up with the race rules, but it was decided that the two runners should each start at home plate and run in the opposite direction around the bases. As in runner number one would run the bases the “correct way” (first base to second base, etc.). The second runner would run from third base to second base, etc. Whoever got back to home plate first would be the winner. In other words, it was a runner’s game of chicken.
It sounded simple enough. And when loosely supervised children are left to their own devices, what could possibly go wrong? 
Dollars to doughnuts
Before my turn had come up, we took a break for snack. All activities came to a screeching halt when it was announced that there were doughnuts that day. Within seconds, children seemingly came out of nowhere towards the picnic table, lured by a subconscious scent of sugar.
You may recall from a previous blog (where I shared that my go-to snack in kindergarten was a cucumber) that I grew up in a generally healthy household. I’d never had a doughnut before. As children started jockeying for position around the doughnut boxes, I quickly surveyed the offerings. What a tantalizing array of sweet choices! There were powdered sugar, glazed, and sprinkled options. But my eyes settled on one doughnut that looked particularly delicious. This doughnut had chocolate frosting on top and looked as if it were bulging at its seams. It certainly was tantalizing.
I boldly swooped my hand into the box and grabbed that doughnut before someone else did. My first bite into this sugary confection revealed a surprising, creamy, pudding-like center.
“You like the Boston Cream doughnuts, huh?” a counselor asked me. I must’ve inadvertently said “mmmmm” out loud. I didn’t care what this doughnut was called or how it was made. I just knew it was the most delicious thing that I’d ever eaten in my life.
Sadly, about halfway through, I realized the doughnut was just a little too rich for my tastes. I felt full. In retrospect, I wish my doughnut disgust had kicked in a little sooner.
Still, I was determined to finish that doughnut. Who knew if I would ever have another doughnut again? Although each bite became a chore, I managed to eat the remainder of the doughnut. And wouldn’t you know it, just as I was wiping my hands on the grass, I heard “Steph, you’re up next.”
Gulp.
Taking their eye off the ball
A competitive child by nature, I had every intention of winning the race. Though I wished there had been a rule that said before running, one had to wait thirty minutes after eating a doughnut—sort of like the myth about swimming. I regretted finishing the donut. I should’ve been more concerned with what might happen when two people ran towards each other at top speeds from opposite directions. Instead, I was focused on whether I would throw up the doughnut while running. But it was too late to quit now. All eyes were on my opponent and me.
With a small burp that left a slightly sour version of the Boston Cream doughnut in my mouth, I stepped up to home plate.
The challenger was a boy my age, who was several inches shorter than me. Surely, I could beat him, doughnut-laden or not. Improving my odds further was that I was picked as the runner going around the bases in the correct direction. Before I could think about anything else, we were motioned over to put one foot on home plate.
“On your mark, get set, go!” a child referee called. And with that, the race began.
Out of habit, I made sure to tag up even though it wasn’t a real game. But when I got to second base—a mere a millisecond before my opponent—we both foolishly tried to tag the base. And wouldn’t you know it? We collided.
The counselor in charge—more likely, the one who should’ve been in charge—rushed over to us.
He was too late. The damage had already been done.
Step on someone’s toes
I recall the impact of my opponent’s head into my lip. He started crying immediately, clutching his head in pain. I, on the other hand, was in shock. I could feel a slight trickle of blood dribbling down to my chin. I was in pain, but I could tell the cut wasn’t that bad. My real concern was whether any teeth were loose. Even though my mouth was pounding, a quick dental exam with my sticky doughnut fingers revealed that my teeth were fine.
We were quickly ushered over to a picnic table where the doughnuts had been moments before. That’s when a second wave of nausea set in.
My stomach lurched, though I didn’t throw up. With a pounding lip and a coppery-blood-and-sugar-tinged aftertaste in my mouth, it was in that instant that my doughnut disgust began. I realized what a stupid thing it was to play that game of chicken. I should’ve been more careful, and now I was paying the price.
Despite being given ice, my lower lip pulsated and felt like it had blown up to the size of an inflatable raft. While I wanted to cry, I also wanted to throw up.
I wasn’t sure if the nausea was from the trauma of the collision, the remnants of the doughnut in my stomach, or both. Either way, I felt awful.
Add insult to injury
By the time my mother had arrived, the blood had dried on my now swollen lip. As a precaution, we were going to stop by my father’s dental office to make sure my teeth were OK. The other kid had long stopped crying and appeared perfectly fine.
I know I was just six, but why didn’t I better appreciate the dangers of running full speed towards another child? Why hadn’t I stopped trying to tag all the bases when I realized the other boy was doing the same thing? Why didn’t I listen to my body when I’d had enough of the doughnut? If I’d done any of those things, I probably could’ve run faster and never would’ve smashed into that poor boy.
If only.
But that’s the nature of regret. Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve. As the saying goes, a lesson learned the hard way is a lesson learned for a lifetime. Although it was an easy promise to keep, I never played that running game of chicken ever again. I also swore off excessively sweet desserts.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether I’m missing out on life’s indulgences due to my doughnut disgust. Probably not. I found that there are many delicious pieces of dark chocolate out there that don’t remind me of Greenvale Day Camp.
But know this: if Dunkin’ Donuts (or some other doughnut chain) ever asks me to be their spokesperson, I’m sorry to say that I will likely have to pass due to my doughnut disgust. Though maybe I could just limit our affiliation by only endorsing their coffee?
I guess I’ll have to wait and see.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
