To finish off a day of educational sight-seeing, we promptly wiped out any and all brain cells that learned anything with a healthy amount of booze, which then led to another all-out marshmallow war. This time, we got much more vicious, splitting into teams, fighting over the bags of ammo (squeezing them so tightly they were rendered useless). In one such attempt to gain control over the bag, I made a valiant effort to give Evan a wedgie while he crammed handfuls of marshmallows between my toes, and thus I am now familiar with one of, if not the most, unpleasant sensations involving marshmallows and the human body. As I flung my too-short legs up onto the counter to wash my feet off in the kitchen sink, Emily exclaimed “Melissa! You have marshmallow on your pants! Take them off.” “But…can I at least get other pants first?”

Where did this sudden sense of shame come from?