A Good Lesson from a Bad (Easter) Egg

By Stephanie Blank

PROMPT—No one noticed ...

The hunt was on, and I was the front-runner, poised and ready to take off like a drug-

sniffing Belgian Malinois as the host shouted, “Let the Easter egg hunt begin!”

Glancing around, sizing up my competition, I knew I had an advantage. The day before,

a social media notification offered plenty of hints and clues but few rules. Thirteen

eggs were to be hidden. Twelve contained $5 bills or $10 gift certificates, stickers and

tiny toys. The 13th egg, aka the “Golden Egg,” held a $50 coupon for a discount on

membership to the club sponsoring the big event.

When I first saw the social media blurb announcing the Easter egg hunt, I paid little

attention and assumed it was for the children or grandchildren of club members. But

that wasn’t the case. In fact, children weren’t to be tolerated, um, I mean included. An Easter egg hunt for adults? I’m in. Who doesn’t like to search for hidden treasures?

And the allure of those miniature toys, cute bunny stickers and cold hard cash stuffed

inside colorful plastic eggs was too tempting to ignore.

Upon hearing the starting announcement, I went into high gear, upending seat cushions, tossing over towels and pickleball paddles and rummaging through waste baskets. Good sense told me to look up and down and that strategy paid off. I ran up stairs and

down ramps, single-mindedly focused on my mission: find those eggs!

By the time my heart-stopping quest ended 15 minutes later, I’d retrieved four of the

brightly colored plastic beauties. Only the golden egg eluded me. As the other tired

hunters slowed down and gathered in one spot, I continued searching like an eagle

seeking prey.

But it was over. All the eggs had been found.

Under the host’s watchful (and curiously suspicious) eye, I laid my eggs (no pun intended) on a table and slowly cracked open each one. The first egg held $5 and a

miniature yo-yo. The second also held $5, a blinged-out toy money ring, and a sticker of a frightened bunny. The third held a $10 Starbucks coupon, a cute sticker of a chick

emerging from an egg and yet another money ring. My last egg held another $10

Starbucks coupon and a pickleball pencil eraser.

I was elated. In addition to being up 30 bucks, I had two sparkly money rings to wear at

the upcoming Easter brunch.

“How many eggs did you find?” screeched the hostess, her eyes narrowing as she

closed in on me. Quivering, I sheepishly held up my four plastic eggs, cupped in my

hands like the kind-hearted orphan boy in Oliver.

“I found four,” I said meekly, too afraid to be proud but too gratified not to be.

“I KNEW I should’ve announced just one egg per person,” she hissed.

It’s a cliché, but my mind reeled for a moment. Excuse me?

I have two kids and even though I’m Jewish, I know from Easter egg hunts, you decorate and hide as many eggs as possible, cut the kids loose in the yard, then help the one crying. So don’t tell me, a mom and grandma, how an Easter egg hunt is supposed to work. As all this flashed through my mind, the egg-shaming continued.

“Some people didn’t find any eggs,” she sniffed haughtily, as if I were an intentional

Easter egg hunt spoiler. I looked around for crying grown-ups but didn’t spot a one.

I decided to take the high road.

“I’m so sorry,” I said in my most genuinely fake ingratiating manner. “I thought this was a traditional Easter egg hunt.”

She took a breath to object to my characterization but I beat her to the punch. “Had I

known there was a limit, I certainly would’ve complied. How can I make this right with

you?”

“It would be really nice if you gave back one of your prizes. I need the eggs back, too,”

she spluttered, tossing back her perfectly coiffed blond hair.

In that moment, my head whirled and I asked myself, “What would Jesus do?”

“Take it all,” I said, pushing the eggshells, teeny prizes, and certificates her way.

“And please accept my apologies for not knowing the rule that wasn’t clear.”

Gathering the items into the folds of her designer tennis dress, she turned away in

triumph, failing to notice I’d pocketed the two cheap plastic money rings.

I hope Jesus doesn’t mind.

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Stephanie Blank is a published writer, artist and storyteller based in Marina del Rey, California, and East Quogue, New York. Her written work has appeared in The Los Angeles Times, McGraw-Hill’s English Composition for College Students, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Atlantic.com, and 3rd Act Magazine, among others. She is also a frequent contributor to The East Hampton Star. Stephanie writes with humor, honesty, and heart about the messy beauty of growing up, growing older, and everything in between. Her stories often explore memory, family, and the small, transformative moments that shape a life. Follow her on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter and read more of her essays at linktr.ee/stephanieblankwriter.