I was hanging out in Twitterverse this morning and read the lovely Ms. Aiden’s Ivy League Insecurities about eating eyeballs, and after the whole need to vomit passed, I took the time to ponder her question: is there a connection between bravery in diet and bravery in life?
And I have to say, I can see the connection from here and it ain’t pretty. I’ve never thought of myself this way, but perhaps I am picky, picky, picky.
So I am not known as adventuresome, in pretty much any sense of the word. For me, being spontaneous means buying a new brand of toothpaste. Seriously, if I’m on a road trip and not driving, I am most likely holding the map and nervously checking road signs. (Early in our marriage, my DH once made me put the map down and sit on my hands. It was a tense trip, made even more so due to a rather famous comment of mine, “It’s about an inch on the map.” But that’s a story for later.)
I’m not good with being carefree and easy-going. I am good at being a control-freak and uptight. Don’t worry, I can still be a delightful dinner guest though. But dinner can be troublesome for me.
First off, I’m a Libra. Now I know I shouldn’t blame such things on something as capricious as my birthday, but when a former student once did my chart and informed me that I was “the most emotional person of the zodiac,” well I wasn’t surprised. I’m good at freaking out and I’m good at laboring over every little decision. Dinner reservations have been known to take me days to make. And once my hiney is in the seat, more decisions ensue. Beverage. Appetizer. Main course. Dessert. Oy. It sometimes makes me long for one of those over-bearing husband types that orders for his mate. Of course, mine knows better than doing that or rolling his eyes or sighing. Love me, love my ditheriness. (Which should be a word, don’t you think?)
But I once ate haggis. Yes, I was in Scotland. Yes, there was a man involved (if anyone knows a lovely mate from Australia by the name of John Mills, please tell him hi, how are ya? from me). And yes, there were copious amounts of alcohol involved. After all, we are talking about a sheep’s innards here.
Twenty years later and I cannot fathom why I would eat something that makes me nauseous just from a memory. Was it because I was in a foreign country? Because I was 21 years old and more brave back then? Because after 2 pints on an empty stomach, I don’t have much in the way of a, ahem, filter? Heck if I know.
But I do know I could never be on any reality show that necessitated I ate something that creeps or crawls. Sorry, not even a million dollars would make that happen. That’s not picky, just prudent if you ask me.