Eeeuw

Once upon a time, about seven or eight years ago, I was at a tres chi-chi opera gala, sitting at a table filled with beautiful (and beautifully augmented) socialites and trophy wives. I was the nondescript plus-one, happily invisible until the bread basket came around and I helped myself to a roll. All conversation stopped. Every sparklingly spackled eye was upon me as I compounded my sin by smearing butter on a bit I’d broken off. One or two jaws dropped as I ate it with my best Sunday manners. I even ate a second one since no one else wanted any. From the reaction, you’d think I had just spat in the centerpiece. All hail Saint Atkins, and boo hiss evil carbs. To this day I don’t know if their reaction stemmed from their fear of gaining weight, or disgust at my lack thereof.

I was reminded of that incident this morning. A particularly svelte and muscular trainer came into the gym holding a small bag. Another trainer (same adjectives apply) asked what was in the bag. “A croissant,” answered the first trainer. I hadn’t really been paying attention until I heard the second trainer gasp. Her voice shook as she exclaimed, “You’re not going to EAT that, are you?!” For the record, he was and he did. Bully for him.

I have my own food phobias, most of which center on laboratory-developed ingredients, protein powder notwithstanding. I don’t eat animals. Although I can cook a decent steak and roast a chicken like nobody’s business, I admit to a bit of revulsion when I think about consuming either. I’m trying to translate that to the examples above and come up with a point.

It took @rmangaha, a guy who deliberately ate in a sushi bar with a C rating, to help me figure it out: People sure are funny about food.