I’m not a particularly squeamish person. I can handle most things, unless it involves ants. I hate ants. But other than that, I’m pretty hardy. When I was little my parents took my sister and me to visit our Godparents and their two daughters. I don’t remember much about the trip. I know I climbed the same tree in the front yard about fifty times. And I know that my father and Godfather decided that they needed to take their girls fishing.
I liked the idea of fishing. Go play in the water and make friends with the fishes. Maybe even come home with a new pet. Not a bad deal for a day out with dad. I liked the fishing pole. I liked sitting under the trees. And then we got to the point when you were supposed to viciously skewer a poor little worm and offer it up as a wriggling sacrifice to the evil fish gods. Needless to say, I freaked out and decided to save all worms everywhere from this horrible fate. My Godsisters were killing worms like maniacs, but I refused.
So, my father, in a show of compassion and humor, ran to the drug store and bought a bag of gummy worms. After calming myself down by eating half the bag, I agreed that maybe if I gave the fish gummy worms, they wouldn’t like eating real worms anymore, and I could save all wormkind. I stuck that rainbow colored gummy on the hook and dunked it into the water.
And nothing bit. Not even a little bit. The fish were on an Atkins Diet and only wanted the pure protein of murdered worm. Thus ended my fishing career.