When I was about 4 years old, a grocery store cart hit me in the face and put me in the hospital. There I was, a little kid shopping with my mom, riding along on the bottom rail of a seemingly innocent run-of-the-mill metal cart and next thing I knew, I was lying on my back in the middle of the frozen foods aisle bleeding profusely from a huge gash above my left eye.
Although I can't really recall the details, I imagine myself trapped under the evil cart with produce in my hair, milk pooling next to my head, eggs smashed on my chest, stay-at-home moms screaming, and someone on the loudspeaker declaring, "Clean-up in aisle four."
Though it only resulted in a few stitches, if you look closely, I still have the scar just above my eyebrow. To my four-year-old self, the injury merely represented my begrudging acceptance of my mom's oft-made "shopping-carts-aren't-meant-to-be-ridden" warning.
Little did I know that today, the injury and its consequent scar would come to represent a much bigger issue: the beginning of a lifelong love-hate relationship with food.
In other words, food is all fun and games until somebody gets hurt/fat.
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1 comment:
Was there any ketchup involved in the incident? If so, that may explain a lot.
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