|how.odious| Year Two: DAY ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE
2017 March 03 [Friday]
Years ago, when my age finally allowed me to participate within the democracy I had so fortunately been born, the first opportunity for me to vote for the next president of my country happened not for another two years. This, of course, does not really pertain so much to the point of this story. Nevertheless, when the time came, I voted and the person for whom I voted became the next president, and officially, that person became my first president. I only share this bit of information now in light of a recent television show I watched within which this president guest appeared. To my hopeful delight, my president exuded a cool unmatched by any of his predecessors. And then, a strange revelation befell me.
As an exuberant consumer of ketchup, I was thrilled when the topic of conversation between this president of mine and the host revolved around ketchup! He recounted with the host of the television show that he forbade ketchup as a condiment upon eggs after the age of eight. The host heartily agreed, and with that enlightened tidbit I realized that I, apparently, possessed a childlike palate. Immediately, to the surprise of those close to me, I gave up ketchup. No longer eating the stuff on eggs or any other food for that matter, I felt my life garner a new level of sophistication with which I quickly became quite proud. Despite this newfound sense of dignity, I pressed on as a recovering addict of immature tastes, all grown and confident in knowing that I, too, could exist in the world as a smart connoisseur of greater things. And then another revelation befell me.
Like people tend to do, admittedly or not, I soon became obsessed with a particular writer after reading one of her books for the first time. The obsession pushed me to discover as much information as I could about the writer. What I found ranged from the truly profound to the seriously trivial. The trivial, however, interested me most once I discovered that this writer, whom I began loving so much through her writings, ate ketchup on everything from the expected, like french fries, to the odd, like celery. Feeling bonded to this writer I held in such steep regard made me feel as though, if I were to consider myself an intellectual, I, too, could openly embrace my love for the condiment. But how would my respect for the president’s stance on the use of ketchup as being solely for the immature resonate through my decision about what it means to like, nay love, the stuff?
I had much to think about with regards to how two people, whom I adored and respected, loathed and loved such a seemingly harmless sauce. I had no other choice but to continue my search for what or how I should think or use the condiment. Therefore, I made a list of every person I deemed important, intelligent, relevant, &c., and then sought whatever information I could about each person’s views on ketchup. Surprisingly, there’s little to no information about such a topic. To this day, I still don’t know how to feel about this condiment I enjoy so dearly yet am too embarrassed to ingest, at least in public. The compromise I have settled upon within myself makes me an avid supporter of ketchup in private spheres while public opinion of the condiment labels the stuff unpalatable. Until, of course, evidence of either side ruling the other more respectable, I will remain decidedly undecided.