Tripping Reality

I went to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia once. It was a weekend trip with a boy when I was 18. I hadn’t thought of that trip for a long time, until the other morning, when I was eating toast.

I am a bread devotee. I buy homemade bread at our superlative, local bakery. If we don’t eat it in a timely fashion, I store it in the fridge so it won’t spoil but can be used for toast and french toast or grilled cheese. I stood staring out the kitchen window while I was eating my toast with butter AND strawberry jam, thank you very much, when I was nearly stunned by a vivid recollection of the Yarmouth trip.

We were eating breakfast at a pretty, little spot with lace curtains and lanterns on the tables. The English muffins were freshly baked, served with an assortment of condiments that included peanut butter and honey. That boy, whom I thought I loved and at that time believed was gracing my life with his superior presence, questioned the wisdom of eating English muffins with both honey and peanut butter, inferring that resulting weight gain would be unappealing.

I have other shadowy memories of the trip to Yarmouth but what I recall most clearly is the criticism of my eating habits. Being young and naive, and living in an alternate reality where I was an equal partner in the relationship, I nursed that arrogant boy through a horrendous episode of mononucleosis that immediately followed our return from Yarmouth. The end of that trip should have been the end of the road.

About elroyjones

Married, no children, responsibly self-directed, living happily.
This entry was posted in Autonomy and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

18 Responses to Tripping Reality

  1. Tripping Reality is the best title ever in the history of the world. There is my new band name right there.

  2. Where did my reply go?

  3. Stupid disappearing comments…

  4. Pingback: Party’s Over | elroyjones

  5. sacha1nch1 says:

    you can’t have jam – i was under the impression it was always referred to as jelly round your way – on something without having butter underneath it; have you been questioned about this perfectly sane characteristic before? i can always tell, on a scone, whether the thin layer of butter has been omitted from beneath the splodge of jam and the ventricle-sized dollop of clotted cream…

    and those roads keep on going sometimes don’t they

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