Being single, not only do I eat alone, but it is usually better to eat alone. Most people sound like pigs when they eat. Their lip-smacking, the slurping, the chewing, the little clicks in their mouths, the food squishing around, the saliva sounds, the scraping and clattering of their knives and forks against their plates, the dinging of silverware against their teeth, their grunting, sighing, farting, breathing, the sound of air passing around obstructions in their nostrils, the sound of swallowing -- all of it is psychological painful to hear. It turns my stomach sour. On the rare event that I eat under such conditions, I get sick to my stomach and I feel mentally exhausted from the struggle not to pick up the nearest chair and bludgeon the loudest offenders. I've stuffed earplugs in my ears, but they always fall out when I chew. When I eat with other people, I eat fast and leave.
Eating at restaurants can be a problem, depending on the company. I had eaten out with Drusilla before, and she had turned out to be a quiet eater. As for the other customers, you get what you pay for in terms of being in the company of people who eat like pigs. Fast food places are not tolerable, but loud background music or television helps. Otherwise, I go when the restaurant opens or later in the shift when there aren’t so many people.
We were on a ski trip, equally sharing expenses and responsibilities. Now, she was acting like it was her house and I was her retarded child. She had her own plans for how I would spend my time.
She had chosen the meal. There were turnips, beets, cabbage, and carrots all boiled together. Mercifully, there was no garlic or onions. Garlic and onions can kill me. Carrots are the one vegetable she bought that I like, but she ruined them by cooking them. It makes them mushy and bitter, and it breaks down the vitamins. Who in their right mind cooks carrots?
The same goes for spinach. I had picked out some fresh spinach leaves at the grocery store, and I had intended to eat the spinach lightly steamed and the carrots raw. As with the carrots, she boiled the spinach, rendering it an inedible lump of dark green sludge.
The food was done and brought to the table. We dished it out onto our plates.
“I am a purist,” she said.
“What’s a purist?” I said.
“I never use salt, spices, or sugar in my cooking,” she said.
I sighed. Two weeks of bland food was ahead of me. The only restaurants in town were overpriced tourist traps. At least the tiny grocery store in the town was cheap. It was the same price as the Paris Megasized grocery store. I knew that I would not be able to maintain my body weight under these conditions.
I tasted the plate of stew or whatever it was supposed to be. It had no flavor. True to her word, she had put no salt or any kind of seasoning in it. Eating it was going to be a chore. Luckily for me, there was a salt shaker in the flat. I upturned the salt shaker and shook it over my plate for a minute. My serving had become dusted with a light layer of salt crystals.
She stared at me, her eyes looking like they were going bug out. She looked angry, but I had tasted her cooking first. She had no right to be angry at me. She wasn’t a good cook, and the only person she had a right to be mad at was herself..
“Salt is bad for you. It will give you high blood pressure, stroke, and heart attacks,” she said with a pedantic delivery.
“My blood pressure is very low. In fact, I need extra salt because run every day and sweat it out. If I don’t eat salt, I will get sick,” I said.
“That is crazy. Who ever heard of such a thing?” she said.
Bossiness is not a nice personality trait, but when it is combined with ignorance, that person is intolerable. I do not appreciate such people questioning my actions. Drusilla does not have a background in medicine, nutrition, or fitness. I shook salt onto the stew for another ten seconds and added some butter.
“You should see a doctor,” she said.
“Why should I see a doctor? How is it even your business? It happens that I just saw a doctor, and she told me to eat salt. It’s a standard recommendation for anybody who does extended periods of exercise and sweats. Salt-free diets are for elderly and sedentary people with bad hearts,” I said.
As an endurance athlete, I’ve learned about nutrition. Failing to learn about sports nutrition will result in bad performance, sickness, and even death under certain conditions. Experts advise that staying hydrated and taking salt is vital. This is the reason salty drinks like Gatorade are popular among athletes. In contrast, the demands of people like Drusilla are dangerous because she is so sure of herself, yet she is horribly wrong. If Drusilla’s advice is followed, it can result in illness or death. When I just got into running when I was a teenager, my father once made me chug a gallon of water. I was not given salts or Gatorade. Within an hour, I had the worst headache of my life, vomiting, and couldn’t get out of bed for three days. It turned out that his bad advice had caused a condition called hyponatremia. It hadn’t been the first time my father’s moronic advice had almost killed me. By now, I like to think that I have learned to ignore the suggestions of fools, and I have a knee jerk reaction to hate anybody who acts like my father.
Every little thing I did was a battle with her.
Next, she complained about which hand held my fork. People who eat left handed bother her. I switched my fork ot my right hand without looking at her or saying a word.
“You’re holding your fork wrong,” Drusilla said.
I was holding my fork overhanded.
“My arm was broken during childhood and did not heal correctly. Because of my injury, overhanded is the only way I can hold the fork, and it’s painful,” I said.
“How can this be?” she said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
She said, “Did I tell you I’m married, And I have two sons.”
“No,” I said.
I looked at her hands. She wasn’t wearing a wedding now, and she had never worn one in my presence.
She said, “I remember telling you. Why don’t you remember?”
I said, “You didn’t tell me. I’m sure I would have remembered.”
That’s one thing I would never forget; as having an affair with a married woman can be fatal - well, maybe not fatal in France where more than half the population has affairs and even expects to share their spouse, but fatal back in the US.
This revelation was bizarre. We had told each other we were single when we first met. She was attractive enough on the outside, but the entire time I knew her, she did not have that rare inner spark, the self awareness, the right smell, the joy of life, the natural curiosity about existence that is needed to draw my interest. I had not wanted to be anything other than friends, and the supermarket diversion ensured that I would never develop any romantic interest in her.
I said, ”are you separated?”
“We live together, but we live as roommates. I do what I want, and he does what he wants. Divorce is expensive in France, so we keep the house and don’t split up the family,” she said.
“So you see other people?”
“yes,” she said.
“How do you have a love life when you’re still living with your husband?" I said.
“We have separate rooms. We each do as we please,” she said.
“And he doesn’t try to interfere with you?” I said.
“no,” she said.
“How old are your children?” I said.
“14 and 12,” she said.
I had wondered why affairs are so common in France while divorce is not so common. One could get a divorce and have the former spouse out of the way to start a new life. Perhaps it is because the French are too cheap to get a divorce and want a roommate to save on rent. Maybe children chain the former mates together. France is also notorious for its paperwork and bureaucracy.
I was reminded of Married with Children, a sitcom about an typical American middle class couple and their loveless marriage. The husband, Al Bundy, works menial and degrading jobs to support the wife and their children. The housewife, Peggy, is out of feminist writer Esther Vilar’s Manipulated Man. Peggy views her husband as a tool. He is both her slave and her free meal ticket for life. Peggy has the intelligence of a monkey and spends her days on the couch watching television and eating bonbons. Despite the fact that her husband, Al, bought her automated household appliances to make her household duties fast and easy, she never does her chores. She does not cook, the kids are undisciplined, and the house is filthy. Al is too worn down to notice or care. Peggy browbeats and abuses Al at every opportunity without ever showing gratitude for the fact that he has given her a life free of the burden of work as well as having given her the children she wants.
Marriage with Children served as a cautionary tale for the generation of boys who grew up with it. Marriage with children is the end of life as we know it, so what on earth was Drusilla doing going on a ski trip and living like she’s single? And worse, on a trip that might be taken to be romantic? Had I known she was married, I wouldn’t have gone because it’s disrespectful toward her husband, her children, and her marriage commitment. She ought to be on the trip with her family. If she wanted time away from her children, she should have left her kids with the grandparents, who are alive and in good health. I didn’t ask if her husband knew where she was. She must have been cuckolding him for years. He was probably sleeping around as well.
After two hours of talking, I was hungry again. I took a piece of bread, buttered it, asked she she wanted a piece, and put it in the microwave.
She went wild.
“What are you doing? What is this? You are using the microwave!” she exclaimed.
Eating at restaurants can be a problem, depending on the company. I had eaten out with Drusilla before, and she had turned out to be a quiet eater. As for the other customers, you get what you pay for in terms of being in the company of people who eat like pigs. Fast food places are not tolerable, but loud background music or television helps. Otherwise, I go when the restaurant opens or later in the shift when there aren’t so many people.
We were on a ski trip, equally sharing expenses and responsibilities. Now, she was acting like it was her house and I was her retarded child. She had her own plans for how I would spend my time.
She had chosen the meal. There were turnips, beets, cabbage, and carrots all boiled together. Mercifully, there was no garlic or onions. Garlic and onions can kill me. Carrots are the one vegetable she bought that I like, but she ruined them by cooking them. It makes them mushy and bitter, and it breaks down the vitamins. Who in their right mind cooks carrots?
The same goes for spinach. I had picked out some fresh spinach leaves at the grocery store, and I had intended to eat the spinach lightly steamed and the carrots raw. As with the carrots, she boiled the spinach, rendering it an inedible lump of dark green sludge.
The food was done and brought to the table. We dished it out onto our plates.
“I am a purist,” she said.
“What’s a purist?” I said.
“I never use salt, spices, or sugar in my cooking,” she said.
I sighed. Two weeks of bland food was ahead of me. The only restaurants in town were overpriced tourist traps. At least the tiny grocery store in the town was cheap. It was the same price as the Paris Megasized grocery store. I knew that I would not be able to maintain my body weight under these conditions.
I tasted the plate of stew or whatever it was supposed to be. It had no flavor. True to her word, she had put no salt or any kind of seasoning in it. Eating it was going to be a chore. Luckily for me, there was a salt shaker in the flat. I upturned the salt shaker and shook it over my plate for a minute. My serving had become dusted with a light layer of salt crystals.
She stared at me, her eyes looking like they were going bug out. She looked angry, but I had tasted her cooking first. She had no right to be angry at me. She wasn’t a good cook, and the only person she had a right to be mad at was herself..
“Salt is bad for you. It will give you high blood pressure, stroke, and heart attacks,” she said with a pedantic delivery.
“My blood pressure is very low. In fact, I need extra salt because run every day and sweat it out. If I don’t eat salt, I will get sick,” I said.
“That is crazy. Who ever heard of such a thing?” she said.
Bossiness is not a nice personality trait, but when it is combined with ignorance, that person is intolerable. I do not appreciate such people questioning my actions. Drusilla does not have a background in medicine, nutrition, or fitness. I shook salt onto the stew for another ten seconds and added some butter.
“You should see a doctor,” she said.
“Why should I see a doctor? How is it even your business? It happens that I just saw a doctor, and she told me to eat salt. It’s a standard recommendation for anybody who does extended periods of exercise and sweats. Salt-free diets are for elderly and sedentary people with bad hearts,” I said.
As an endurance athlete, I’ve learned about nutrition. Failing to learn about sports nutrition will result in bad performance, sickness, and even death under certain conditions. Experts advise that staying hydrated and taking salt is vital. This is the reason salty drinks like Gatorade are popular among athletes. In contrast, the demands of people like Drusilla are dangerous because she is so sure of herself, yet she is horribly wrong. If Drusilla’s advice is followed, it can result in illness or death. When I just got into running when I was a teenager, my father once made me chug a gallon of water. I was not given salts or Gatorade. Within an hour, I had the worst headache of my life, vomiting, and couldn’t get out of bed for three days. It turned out that his bad advice had caused a condition called hyponatremia. It hadn’t been the first time my father’s moronic advice had almost killed me. By now, I like to think that I have learned to ignore the suggestions of fools, and I have a knee jerk reaction to hate anybody who acts like my father.
Every little thing I did was a battle with her.
Next, she complained about which hand held my fork. People who eat left handed bother her. I switched my fork ot my right hand without looking at her or saying a word.
“You’re holding your fork wrong,” Drusilla said.
I was holding my fork overhanded.
“My arm was broken during childhood and did not heal correctly. Because of my injury, overhanded is the only way I can hold the fork, and it’s painful,” I said.
“How can this be?” she said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
She said, “Did I tell you I’m married, And I have two sons.”
“No,” I said.
I looked at her hands. She wasn’t wearing a wedding now, and she had never worn one in my presence.
She said, “I remember telling you. Why don’t you remember?”
I said, “You didn’t tell me. I’m sure I would have remembered.”
That’s one thing I would never forget; as having an affair with a married woman can be fatal - well, maybe not fatal in France where more than half the population has affairs and even expects to share their spouse, but fatal back in the US.
This revelation was bizarre. We had told each other we were single when we first met. She was attractive enough on the outside, but the entire time I knew her, she did not have that rare inner spark, the self awareness, the right smell, the joy of life, the natural curiosity about existence that is needed to draw my interest. I had not wanted to be anything other than friends, and the supermarket diversion ensured that I would never develop any romantic interest in her.
I said, ”are you separated?”
“We live together, but we live as roommates. I do what I want, and he does what he wants. Divorce is expensive in France, so we keep the house and don’t split up the family,” she said.
“So you see other people?”
“yes,” she said.
“How do you have a love life when you’re still living with your husband?" I said.
“We have separate rooms. We each do as we please,” she said.
“And he doesn’t try to interfere with you?” I said.
“no,” she said.
“How old are your children?” I said.
“14 and 12,” she said.
I had wondered why affairs are so common in France while divorce is not so common. One could get a divorce and have the former spouse out of the way to start a new life. Perhaps it is because the French are too cheap to get a divorce and want a roommate to save on rent. Maybe children chain the former mates together. France is also notorious for its paperwork and bureaucracy.
I was reminded of Married with Children, a sitcom about an typical American middle class couple and their loveless marriage. The husband, Al Bundy, works menial and degrading jobs to support the wife and their children. The housewife, Peggy, is out of feminist writer Esther Vilar’s Manipulated Man. Peggy views her husband as a tool. He is both her slave and her free meal ticket for life. Peggy has the intelligence of a monkey and spends her days on the couch watching television and eating bonbons. Despite the fact that her husband, Al, bought her automated household appliances to make her household duties fast and easy, she never does her chores. She does not cook, the kids are undisciplined, and the house is filthy. Al is too worn down to notice or care. Peggy browbeats and abuses Al at every opportunity without ever showing gratitude for the fact that he has given her a life free of the burden of work as well as having given her the children she wants.
Marriage with Children served as a cautionary tale for the generation of boys who grew up with it. Marriage with children is the end of life as we know it, so what on earth was Drusilla doing going on a ski trip and living like she’s single? And worse, on a trip that might be taken to be romantic? Had I known she was married, I wouldn’t have gone because it’s disrespectful toward her husband, her children, and her marriage commitment. She ought to be on the trip with her family. If she wanted time away from her children, she should have left her kids with the grandparents, who are alive and in good health. I didn’t ask if her husband knew where she was. She must have been cuckolding him for years. He was probably sleeping around as well.
After two hours of talking, I was hungry again. I took a piece of bread, buttered it, asked she she wanted a piece, and put it in the microwave.
She went wild.
“What are you doing? What is this? You are using the microwave!” she exclaimed.
