Michael did not have any breakfast at all. He was saving the horrible shakes and the jelly for me, since I was the one with breastmilk that could run out if I didn’t eat enough. If that happened, Rose would go hungry as well.
After breakfast, we went downtown agency-hopping to try to get enough help that our gas and electric wouldn’t be shut off the next day. A horrible social worker snarked “Chronic fatigue? That’s a new one,” when she looked at our paperwork. She made some phone calls and, after the requisite hour of suspense, got us on utility assistance.
As we waited for the bus home, we sat on the steps of that traditional Catholic church where we’d had our wedding and started our traditional marriage just a few years before. Rosie had a good time crawling on the stone steps. I fantasized about fast food and tried to think of a way to make beans interesting without buying any seasonings. Just before the bus came, Michael’s mother texted us to say that she’d sent us twenty dollars.
I took the baby home while Michael took the twenty to the supermarket to buy chicken and rice I could cook quickly for lunch, because we were both ravenous.
When I got back, I was treated to a Facebook newsfeed featuring selfie after selfie of everyone I knew posing at Chik-Fil-A, smiling greasy smiles, holding up burgeoning paper bags of fast food they’d bought to show their support of “traditional marriage.” I saw photos of nuns who had taken vows of poverty buying fast food to support traditional marriage. I saw a photo someone had taken of an Amish buggy at the Chik-fil-A drive-through, in support of traditional marriage. I had also received a comment on my Sarcastic Wonka meme: a materially comfortable acquaintance from Franciscan University had dropped by to call me stupid and immature for making fun of the Chik-Fil-A reverse boycott. The Franciscan University grad had a lot to say about how horrible I was for not understanding the sacredness of the Chik-Fil-A reverse boycott and all the good this would do for traditional marriage.
I wish I could say that I handled this with mature grace and humility. I wish I can say that my traditional feminine poise and reserve kept me from typing certain highly traditional four-letter Anglo-Saxon pejoratives. Above all, I wish I could say I regretted what I’d said later, but I still think I didn’t go far enough. Perhaps if my traditional husband had been at home.
In sum, I just can’t get mad at anyone whose idea of a good meal is a Big Mac or mass produced greasy chicken bits. I can’t get mad at people who don’t eat junk food either. I don’t care either way. If you think that eating OR avoiding junk food can make you or anyone else virtuous, I will post a sarcastic Wonka meme about you and swear if you press the point. And that goes for everyone. I can’t even get mad at Donald Trump for his fast food cravings.
Let’s go back to criticizing the president for good reasons instead. There are plenty of those to go around.
(image via Pixabay)
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