Juxtaposition

Those of you who read these self-absorbed words on a regular basis and those of you who love me or know me at all are aware of my self-proclaimed favorite food: Sonic. Double cheeseburger, with mayo, without the pickles; side of tatter tots with cheese, and a cherry-vanilla coke. Here is a well kept secret. Very, very few people know this: My favorite food is not actually Sonic. Gasp! Heart-palpitations! Deceit! Shock! Planets colliding! My real favorite food: My dad’s homemade fried chicken, with mashed potatoes and gravy. True, it is partly that reminiscent aspect of feeling like a safe little kid again when I eat it. It is also true, though, that it is partly due to the fact that my folks are the best cooks anywhere.
Being raised in Missouri (Missoura, for you natives) ensured that my main food group was grease. Fried okra, fried zucchini, fried catfish, fried steak, fried spinach, food, food, food, fried, fried, fried. While I never want to live in Missouri again, never ever ever, I am still very proud of my white trash, Ozarkian, hillbilly roots (truly, I am). Part of those roots is the love of grease—to the point where part of my blood is grease cells, it helps the blood flow more smoothly.
Last night, I came face to face that I have shed the last vestige of my upbringing, all very unintentionally. I had already lost most of my accent (most), I quit wearing the fourteen pound belt buckles, I traded my Wranglers in for Luckies, I even eat Sushi at times. The only thing holding me onto my roots, my sense of where I come from, and where I am going was my love, adoration, and worship of grease.
In the goal of creating the body I have always wanted and getting ready for Halloween, I have been eating healthier than I ever dreamed possible. Compared to most truly health conscious people, I am sure that what I consider healthy is laughable, but still. . . As I was saying, last night, I went out with my beautiful friend MD. We got salads and then went to coffee at Diedrich. While there, we decided to go see the movie “Capote” (an absolutely wonderful film, by the way—if it does not win some awards then someone very evil and corrupt is in charge of the movie voting process thingy). While there, she and I split a huge bag of popcorn. Coved in butter. It was delicious.
The movie was nearly a fourth over as I tilted the bag in the air and let the remainder of the carton empty into my ever ravenous mouth. As the last kernels slide down my esophagus and into my awaiting belly, a rumble coursed through me. My stomach cramped and I let out an uncomfortable groan. About half-way through this perfectly crafted film, I embarked on my first of three trips to the bathroom. Vomit galore.
I managed to finish the film. MD kindly brought up the fact that we had just eaten salads. With the rash of nasty sickness imparted by such deceitful vegetation lately, fear shot through my body. I was going to die. All for trying to be thinner. Serves my vain and conceited self right, I supposed. I was able to make it home before the final (and much more painful) throws of bile overtook my being. My neighbor enquired of me when he saw me today because of all the retching sounds coming from my house last night. (That is embarrassing on so many levels.)
Shakily and weakly, I crawled into bed with Dunkyn and fell asleep. I woke up feeling perfectly fine and dandy this morning. No Ecoli. No death by greens. No drama. It was the popcorn. Grease overload. Grease has transformed from being manna from Heaven to being poisonous Kryptonite. It is a sad, sad day. It wasn’t enough of a slam to my upbringing that I am a gay, mostly liberal man. I am now a tree-hugging, health conscious vegetarian. I could just shoot myself from the shame!