Before I knew it, I was a gum chewer

At some point in the last 10 years, I started chewing gum.

Not all the time, mind you. And mostly only in the car.

But by any definition, I am a frequent consumer of chewing gum.

My brand of choice is Wrigley's 5 Gum Peppermint Cobalt Sugar-Free. The mint is intense (which I love), the flavor lasts a long time (which I really love), and it comes in packs of 15, so it keeps me supplied longer than those old 5-stick packs my mom used to carry in her purse.

The only problem with this habit is that my car perpetually smells faintly like a peppermint oil factory. Most of those who ride with me don't care, but my wife does.

Terry does not particularly like mint. And she certainly does not like the smell of mint in the closed confines of a car.

She refers to my Honda Civic as "the Mint Mobile."

The only thing I can do is try not to chew any gum in the car if I know she's going to occupy the passenger seat in the near future. Even then, I don't know that the fragrance ever really goes away.

The other pitfall of being a gum chewer is becoming an obnoxious gum chewer. Someone who chews loudly and proudly. Someone who chomps their way through every conversation. Someone who must have a stick of gum in their mouth at all times.

I try desperately to avoid being that guy.

I figure, worst comes to worst, I will one day blow up like a blueberry à la Violet Beauregarde in the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" as punishment for my gum-related sins. Only instead of dejuicing me, the Oompa Loompas will allow me to explode in a mess of blueberry debris and sticky peppermint gum residue.

As far as my longsuffering wife is concerned, it will be a fair punishment.