Earlier today, I had a complete brush with what can only be described as a near averted, panic attack.
As I was sitting around, waiting on my nail salon to open this morning, the other half of the matrimonial union is scrounging around the pantry in hopes of finding something to make himself for breakfast. Then, I hear the words that send chills up my spine and cause me to yell out, “NO!”
OHOTMU: “What? I’m thinking about frying up this Spam for a sandwich.”
Me: “DON’T TOUCH THAT SPAM!”
What? No! Not the Spam that has made move after move with our family. Not the Spam that I occasionally will come across and again, check the expiration date and reminisce about my first craving for anything in pregnancy. Not the Spam that reminds me of the first time I went to Hawaii and sat in a Denny’s outside the International Market in Waikiki and almost, just almost ordered the Spam and Eggs. I mean, not that I would have eaten it anyway but, who doesn’t want to say that they sat in Waikiki and ate Spam?!
Things began to flash through my head at lightening speeds. The peeling sound of the metal top. The gelatinous mass that would inevitably be surrounding that mass of mystery meatiness. The loss of something that stands for something. No, not something… MANY things.
And with this, he takes notice of the expiration date and that it would expire next year. And I, find myself uttering words that I would have never thought of hearing myself say. At least, out loud, that is.
Me: “Well, if you are going to cook it, at least wait until I get back from getting my pedicure.”
OHOTMU: “Um, okay but, why?”
Me: “Well, duh… I need a picture of you cooking it, or opening the can. Fuck! Does it matter? Just make sure to leave at least one piece so that I can take a picture when I get back.”
OHOTMU: “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
Me: “JUST DO IT!”
And with that, he cautiously returns the can to the pantry and steps away.
Thank you. Just, thank you.