Hostess Cupcakes. My kids love them. My son, Gene, used to have a method for eating them. I loved watching him do this. He’d peel off the top layer of chocolate, pry open the cake, then extract the cream filling with his little finger. He’d spread it onto the chocolate frosting and roll the whole thing up into a tube. Then he’d eat it slowly with this incredible look of satisfaction on his face. Then he would feed the cake to the dog who would get the trots for the next three days. I was watching him go through this whole ritual one day, so deeply envious of his unadulterated joy and lack of inhibition, when my ex-wife came into the room, smacked him in the head and flushed the whole operation down the toilet. He cried for the rest of the afternoon and it wasn’t over the cupcake.
He was crying about heartbreak and how it transcends a person’s gender, race and station in life. In the face of heartbreak, it’s so easy to retreat to what they tell us is familiar. Don’t love this person. It’s wrong. Marry this person because it’s what you’re supposed to do to be happy. Love this way, not that way. Eat the whole damned cupcake, even if the cake is dry and without taste. If you play by the rules, your heart won’t get broken. You may not die happy, but you’ll die without a scratch on you.
But we know that’s not what happens, don’t we. You see, Gene never ate a Hostess Cupcake again after that. His mother told him without words what he was doing was wrong. Unnatural. And it made him unlovable. The tiny part of him that dared to believe in transcendent, free, and unbridled love was smothered and dropped into deep waters and in its place is a small hollowed crevice, never to be filled.
Your cupcakes, though. I eat them. Every Sunday. I peel off the top layer. Spread the icing. Make the tube and I eat it slowly. The whole deal.
Anyway, that’s basically what I see for the commercial. Only maybe the father in the ad shows the son how to love and be loved again.