Sunday, October 15, 2006
For the past few weeks I’ve felt a lot like a crouton, sitting contentedly atop the great salad of life. An explanation…
When you make a tossed salad, you start with what…lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes…stuff like that. That’s ninety-five percent of the salad, and while it needs to be there, it’s not especially delicious or desirable. It’s there because it needs to be. That’s how humans are. Ninety-five percent of us suck, basically. We’re nothing special. We’re simply there because we need to be. But when you start adding in all the little extras (bacon bits, sunflower seeds, shredded beets, cheese, diced eggs, and finally dressing) the salad instantly becomes delicious. Funny how that five percent can get us to eat the nutritious stuff. So the celebrities, politicians, and incredibly lucky or incredibly good-looking people of the world are like those extras. They make the human race look good. They put us ninety-five percenters to shame. They make us taste even worse by comparison.
This is where the croutons come in. Anyone who’s ever made a salad at one of those Sizzler-esque salad bars knows that croutons go on last. You pour the dressing on, and then come the croutons, which stick to the dressing beautifully, nestled high above everything else.
For the past two weeks, that’s how it was. I sat on top of it all. I was one of them...a crouton. I was getting paid for not working. I got picked up by a new company, complete with an improved salary and better benefits. A few women in my life made their intentions pretty obvious, and while I find their interest in me inexplicable, I’m still flattered. And finally, my job with the newspaper reached new heights. It seems that some of the stories I’ve written this year have sparked a controversy in a particular school, and the paper is caught in the middle of them and me. Very juvenile, I’ll admit, but it’s proof that people actually read the garbage I write. And that feels good.
My demise from the status of crouton began last Thursday, when the Sports editor called me and gave me an assignment. A volleyball game, Friday night...nothing to freak out about. But then he told me that it was the only game being played that night (since every school in the state was on break that day for the UEA conference) so there would be a photographer there and possibly front page coverage. This is where it gets interesting. There’s a certain photographer at the paper who, for a variety of reasons, I’m quite attracted to. Let me emphasize that I’m not stalking her or anything. I’m much too lazy for that. I just think she’s cute, and I like her work, and the few times I’ve talked to her I was quite enamored. But with my luck, I knew that there was no way she’d be at the same game as me. Cool stuff like that just doesn’t happen in my life, so I didn’t think twice about it.
I showed up at the game early, but because of some scheduling mix-up, it had already started. I’d only missed about a minute or two but it made a bad day worse, since I’d woken up with a cold the same morning and had been fighting it all day. So I was sitting there, watching the game and trying breathe normally through my mucus-infused nasal passages when I see this certain photographer coming down the stairs toward me. She got to me and asked if I was with the newspaper (whose name I won’t mention here) and I nodded like an idiot, because my throat was closed and my sinuses were packed and my voice was barely intelligible. Then she put a very large camera on the floor next to me and asked if I’d watch it. I nodded again, like a retard.
While she went off to do whatever photographers do, I sat there in a state of panic. Now, this particular girl won a national photo contest in a very prominent news magazine a few months ago, so I told myself that if I ever ran into her again, that was my in. I’d simply ask her about the contest, and I’d let my charm and good looks take over from there. So, even though I barely sounded human, and probably looked like crap, I decided to make my move when she came back for her camera.
Well, the first game ended, and since the home team (the Eagles) had won, the speakers started playing that stupid Steve Miller song “Fly Like an Eagle” at about 180 decibels, good enough to do some serious damage to my inner ear. It was at that point when she came back for the camera. She asked me something about the game, but it was so loud, I could only shrug. Damn that song! I have a vague idea what she asked, something like “Why’d it start early?” but the noise would have drown out any reply of mine, especially since my voice was so hammered. I scrapped my plan to ask her about the contest. There's no way I could have pulled it off. A future of marital bliss was stymied by Steve Miller. The next game started in a few minutes, she was busy loading her camera, and it was too loud anyway. So, while she sat there and got her stuff ready, I pretended to be busy taking notes, and she soon disappeared up into the balcony to shoot her pictures.
So I guess I got my chance to make a move, but really, what chance did I have? If it wasn’t for that music! I hope Steve Miller dies of an infected anal fissure and rots in hell. And the cold too. That wasn’t helping me out. Last time I checked, sniffling wasn’t a real turn on for the opposite sex.
Just more proof that God mocks my futile existence. I know I’ll never get another chance like that. It was so perfect. She was sitting right by me. I had the hardest part of the dating game (the approach) over with. I just had to make that first move and go with it. Let me emphasize that my failure has nothing to do with fear. I was ready to be rejected, ready to be shot down like a loser. It would have been worth it, just so I didn't have to spend the rest of my life wondering "what if."
The rest of the match was a blur. I remember taking score and scribbling notes, but the game was hardly my focus. My streak of good luck is officially over. Fate grabbed the great salad tongs and tossed me back to the bottom of the bowl.
When you make a tossed salad, you start with what…lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes…stuff like that. That’s ninety-five percent of the salad, and while it needs to be there, it’s not especially delicious or desirable. It’s there because it needs to be. That’s how humans are. Ninety-five percent of us suck, basically. We’re nothing special. We’re simply there because we need to be. But when you start adding in all the little extras (bacon bits, sunflower seeds, shredded beets, cheese, diced eggs, and finally dressing) the salad instantly becomes delicious. Funny how that five percent can get us to eat the nutritious stuff. So the celebrities, politicians, and incredibly lucky or incredibly good-looking people of the world are like those extras. They make the human race look good. They put us ninety-five percenters to shame. They make us taste even worse by comparison.
This is where the croutons come in. Anyone who’s ever made a salad at one of those Sizzler-esque salad bars knows that croutons go on last. You pour the dressing on, and then come the croutons, which stick to the dressing beautifully, nestled high above everything else.
For the past two weeks, that’s how it was. I sat on top of it all. I was one of them...a crouton. I was getting paid for not working. I got picked up by a new company, complete with an improved salary and better benefits. A few women in my life made their intentions pretty obvious, and while I find their interest in me inexplicable, I’m still flattered. And finally, my job with the newspaper reached new heights. It seems that some of the stories I’ve written this year have sparked a controversy in a particular school, and the paper is caught in the middle of them and me. Very juvenile, I’ll admit, but it’s proof that people actually read the garbage I write. And that feels good.
My demise from the status of crouton began last Thursday, when the Sports editor called me and gave me an assignment. A volleyball game, Friday night...nothing to freak out about. But then he told me that it was the only game being played that night (since every school in the state was on break that day for the UEA conference) so there would be a photographer there and possibly front page coverage. This is where it gets interesting. There’s a certain photographer at the paper who, for a variety of reasons, I’m quite attracted to. Let me emphasize that I’m not stalking her or anything. I’m much too lazy for that. I just think she’s cute, and I like her work, and the few times I’ve talked to her I was quite enamored. But with my luck, I knew that there was no way she’d be at the same game as me. Cool stuff like that just doesn’t happen in my life, so I didn’t think twice about it.
I showed up at the game early, but because of some scheduling mix-up, it had already started. I’d only missed about a minute or two but it made a bad day worse, since I’d woken up with a cold the same morning and had been fighting it all day. So I was sitting there, watching the game and trying breathe normally through my mucus-infused nasal passages when I see this certain photographer coming down the stairs toward me. She got to me and asked if I was with the newspaper (whose name I won’t mention here) and I nodded like an idiot, because my throat was closed and my sinuses were packed and my voice was barely intelligible. Then she put a very large camera on the floor next to me and asked if I’d watch it. I nodded again, like a retard.
While she went off to do whatever photographers do, I sat there in a state of panic. Now, this particular girl won a national photo contest in a very prominent news magazine a few months ago, so I told myself that if I ever ran into her again, that was my in. I’d simply ask her about the contest, and I’d let my charm and good looks take over from there. So, even though I barely sounded human, and probably looked like crap, I decided to make my move when she came back for her camera.
Well, the first game ended, and since the home team (the Eagles) had won, the speakers started playing that stupid Steve Miller song “Fly Like an Eagle” at about 180 decibels, good enough to do some serious damage to my inner ear. It was at that point when she came back for the camera. She asked me something about the game, but it was so loud, I could only shrug. Damn that song! I have a vague idea what she asked, something like “Why’d it start early?” but the noise would have drown out any reply of mine, especially since my voice was so hammered. I scrapped my plan to ask her about the contest. There's no way I could have pulled it off. A future of marital bliss was stymied by Steve Miller. The next game started in a few minutes, she was busy loading her camera, and it was too loud anyway. So, while she sat there and got her stuff ready, I pretended to be busy taking notes, and she soon disappeared up into the balcony to shoot her pictures.
So I guess I got my chance to make a move, but really, what chance did I have? If it wasn’t for that music! I hope Steve Miller dies of an infected anal fissure and rots in hell. And the cold too. That wasn’t helping me out. Last time I checked, sniffling wasn’t a real turn on for the opposite sex.
Just more proof that God mocks my futile existence. I know I’ll never get another chance like that. It was so perfect. She was sitting right by me. I had the hardest part of the dating game (the approach) over with. I just had to make that first move and go with it. Let me emphasize that my failure has nothing to do with fear. I was ready to be rejected, ready to be shot down like a loser. It would have been worth it, just so I didn't have to spend the rest of my life wondering "what if."
The rest of the match was a blur. I remember taking score and scribbling notes, but the game was hardly my focus. My streak of good luck is officially over. Fate grabbed the great salad tongs and tossed me back to the bottom of the bowl.
# posted by RBW @ 7:37 PM 
