Thursday, March 15, 2007

March Sadness

I’m really sorry about the lack of posts this week, but I promise I have a good reason. I am lazy. You knew this about me coming in. I have the work ethic of toddler. If I was an ant, the 1998 movie Antz would have been about me – an ant who doesn’t understand why everyone else is working so hard when there are so many things in the world to appreciate, like not working, and the internet, and following up long stretches of not working on the internet by looking your boss in the face, pretending to be exhausted from working so hard, and telling him that you are taking the rest of the day off to go to an NCAA Tournament Kickoff party at Planet Hollywood.

So like I was saying: No post today either. But you can’t blame me for this one. The March Madness party is my fifth favorite day of the year. No where else in the world (not true) can you get free food and beer served to you while watching four different college basketball games, in which the only interest you have is the money you bet on them, unless you went to one of these schools, in which case I probably don’t talk to you anyway. You can’t begrudge me this. It’s like begrudging a divorced mother her child support. I don’t think I know how to use the word “begrudge.”

Anyway, I had a salad for lunch on Tuesday and here’s my commentary on the topic: Why? I get how it’s fun because you pick all these toppings to go on it, and there’s like 50 things to choose from, but then when it’s all done and they hand it to you, it’s still a fucking salad. And while you’re eating it, it’s still a fucking salad. Until the very end, when it’s no longer a salad rather a pile of corn and beans and other random crap that settled to the bottom of the bowl in a puddle of vinaigrette.

So yesterday when I went to the deli to get lunch, I stood on the sandwich line and looked disdainfully at the people ordering salads. I couldn’t convince myself that it didn’t matter what they ate, it only mattered what I ate. It does matter, because what will happen is this: Every day I will see 20 people ordering salad, and after a few weeks of eating the same five things on rotation for lunch, I’ll think, “All these people seem to love salad. There’s got to be something to it.” Then I’ll Create My Own Salad with all these exciting, colorful ingredients, and when he’s done tossing it around in the bowl like America’s Next Top Chef, he’ll slide the lid on, write $10.95 on it (because I get so carried away with the excitement of $1.00 additional toppings) and as he hands it over the counter it’ll be like everyone in the room just pulled the greatest con on me, because it’s still a fucking salad.