I realized something a couple of weeks ago. I’m not afraid of vegetables. Not any of ’em. I feel pretty good about this. I don’t plan to brag about it a lot, but I’m hoping it will come up in conversation sooner or later.
I don’t make this claim lightly either. I have the results of extensive testing to back up everything I say. For example, I took a bag of carrots – that’s right, a whole bag – and I arranged them in as menacing an arrangement as I could. I waited to see what my reaction would be. Nothing. I turned the lights out. Nothing. And I didn’t stop there.
I designed an experiment wherein a friend would surprise me with a random vegetable. There were some technical difficulties in collecting data on that one. I’m still not exactly sure what went wrong, because I had very clear, well-written instructions with carefully drawn diagrams showing the whole procedure. But when I turned my back, to facilitate the whole surprise scenario, people kept leaving. It’s possible they were jealous.
So I ended up hiding vegetables throughout the house. Over time I forgot where many of them were. I’ll tell you, when you open a cupboard to get out a glass, and there’s a rutabaga sitting right there on top of the plates, looking right at you, that’s when you find out what kind of man you are. But I held my own. I didn’t slam the door and then set the cupboard on fire. I just reached in, picked up that ‘baga (I find it makes them less menacing if I give them pet names) and ever so calmly, put it away in the vegetable bin. No big deal. Just taking care of business. This exercise was enormously successful. With each encounter I grew more confident. I had a minor setback with the potatoes in the sock drawer, but man they were creepy. And to be fair, potatoes aren’t truly vegetables.
My power over vegetables seems boundless. But with this power comes a sense of obligation to my fellow men. I often walk through the produce department at the local Safeway, offering advice and encouragement to those who might be a little out of their element. “You okay with those radishes, Ma’am? Hey, that’s great. Rock on. No, I don’t work here. I’m just doing my duty. Whoa, nice work with those yams, sir. You obviously know what you’re doing.” Surprisingly, my intentions often go under-appreciated. But I suppose that is my cross to bear.
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