We get attached to the silliest objects.

In the comics, you always see Linus clutching his blanket protectively, shielding it from Snoopy’s prying muzzle. I can’t admit to being a huge fan of “Peanuts” ”“ every time I read a strip with no dialogue that ends with Charlie Brown crying on a pitcher’s mound, I always feel like I’ve wasted some small part of my life. But there’s something truthful about Linus. He represents those of us who have trouble letting go of certain things. He also represents chronic thumb-suckers and looks like he has spaghetti on his head, but we’ll forgive him that for now.

In some sense, we’ve all got our Linus blankets ”“ our feel-safe objects that comfort us, and without which we feel strangely empty. Usually this is something small and disposable, like a routine morning coffee, but don’t discount the eccentrics who have assumed more permanent affectations ”“ the old man with the gleaming silver cane who doesn’t actually need it, the would-be pirate with a patch covering a fully functioning eye; people like that.

There was a time, lamely, when I once considered carrying around a tennis ball, thinking that if I intermittently bounced it through hallways and off the sides of buildings, I would shed my identity as Weird Aloof Guy and I’d become Edgy Tennis Ball Guy. This fantasy lasted about a week before I realized that the two identities would simply merge, and I’d be the weird aloof schmuck with the annoying tennis ball fixation. Add to that a complete lack of motor control, and you can see why the only Dunlops I touch are covered in dog slobber.

Gum. Wristwatch. Giant sunglasses that could provide cover from enemy gunfire. We are all the sum total of the choices we make, large and small, and the small ones are fascinating to me. Look hard enough, and you can see little character flourishes in just about everyone ”“ including yourself, Mr. Double-Espresso with Cinnamon Shavings. Sometimes, though, these choices can morph into a semi-permanent routine that can become addicting.

I started mulling this vague and mystifying topic while roaming the supermarket last week in a hunt for mints. I’ve talked about mints before, but perhaps I failed to convey just how important they’ve become to me. Let me put it this way: If they announce tomorrow that they’re halting production of Ice Breakers Frost, I’m taking one of my remaining mints to a scientist so he can determine its exact chemical composition. Then I’m starting a lab in my living room, where I’ll sequester myself for days at a time, replicating with a lover’s exactitude that cool, crisp, winterfrosty goodness that starts each and every workday. The police will receive confusing reports and suspect that I’ve started a crystal meth lab, and when they bust down the door and storm the living room, I’ll simply smile and offer them a mint. We’ll all share a laugh, and sit around sucking homemade Ice Breakers and watching “Mad Men.”

I like mints.

Somehow, over the past year, they became my tennis ball, my Linus blanket. And that’s all well and good, except now I fall into a panic whenever I can’t find some ”“ a feeling that would be all too familiar to smokers, heroin addicts, and anyone who’s had more than one Thin Mint. (Seriously, Girl Scouts, those are pretty rad.)

Last week’s grocery outing was a harrowing experience, the stuff of cold sweats and flashbacks. My basket filled with provisions for the week, I lumbered up to the impulse-item rack to grab a couple containers of my favorite mid-morning treat, only my mid-morning treat was gone ”“ just the gaping maw of an empty cardboard box in its place. Nothing on the rack but Certs and a gum called Orbit. Certs are a pale substitute, and Orbit? Who chews Orbit? Astronauts on the International Space Station? Weak.

Thus began the great Ice Breakers hunt of 2013. It’s a testament to my sad and pathetic mint addiction that my real groceries, the milk and the rice and the boneless chicken breasts, were temporarily forgotten, left behind with the Orbit and that other weird gum that looks somehow Scandinavian. It was only after a frantic and frenzied search that a solitary container ”“ one lonely soldier tucked into his foxhole ”“ appeared behind an overhanging price sticker. Relief washed over me, the kind only rivaled by that of re-elected presidents and shark attack survivors.

They say the first step to overcoming an addiction is admitting you have a problem, and I admit that fully. But as long as it doesn’t harm anyone, and gives me minty-fresh breath, I’ll shrug and pony up the mint money without qualm. As Linus well knows, sometimes it’s worth a little inconvenience to hold onto small creature comforts.

Plus, let’s face it. They’re way tastier than tennis balls. Trust me on that one.

— Jeff Lagasse is a staff writer and columnist for the Journal Tribune, and is likely sucking on a hard ball of peppermint at this very moment. He can be contacted at 282-1535, Ext. 319, or at [email protected].