Brandon Singleton
Published 10/15/2020
I used to be picky.
You could count on me to eat a peanut butter and honey sandwich. But don’t even think about substituting strawberry jam. Jam is fruit and I don’t like fruit. I wouldn’t eat fresh apricots from the front tree. I wouldn’t eat the pears my mom canned last fall.
I didn’t eat vegetables either, when I was picky. They are bland, bitter, and textured. I’d force down a baked potato as long as you smothered it with sour cream, bacon and cheese.
At first I was proud to be picky. Then I wasn’t, when I didn’t fit in at school. My best friend told my secret to the class. “He doesn’t even like fruit!” My head just started spinning. Something was horribly wrong with me. I wasn’t like the rest, and now everybody knew about it.
My parents let me eat what I liked. But once in a while, they’d joke about locking me up in the garage with nothing but a banana. They thought I chose picky. They thought I’d come around if they dangled a carrot. My dad offered me a new video game if I’d eat one baby carrot. He put it on the plate in front of me. The family just stared, waiting to see what I’d do. They got bored watching me sit and squirm in that chair. They all left. I sat, all alone. I really wanted that video game. But I was picky. I worked up the courage. I put the carrot in my mouth. Then immediately spewed it out. No carrot. No video game.
Peer pressure is an awful, silent thing. Nobody said anything at all. Still, I started forcing food into my mouth and swallowing it before my tongue could take notice. Everybody was at the county fair, under the hot yellow sun, running through the grass in bare feet, chomping red watermelon. I grabbed a piece and worked it down, barely concealing the disgust on my face. Picky turned less picky.
Eventually, the sorry truth dawned on me. I wasn’t liked. That scared off my picky, real quick. I had calloused warts on my hand, all across the knuckles. I wore big, round glasses and slicked, parted hair that signaled I was socially inept. I tried to blend in with the pack of sheep, as a clueless llama. An ugly duckling. I kept my distance, so that maybe they wouldn’t notice I was another species.
Picky becomes a cycle. Too picky, no options. Not picky, too many. Too picky again. Then you become afraid. You make it stop. You choose not picky. You settle.
It tastes alright at first. Then it turns bitter. Nasty bitter. You remember why you were picky. You swallow, swallow, swallow, until suddenly you vomit. It covers you. You sit, all alone.
You didn’t choose picky.