Nicky’s baseball game. Sunny, beautiful, breezy Sunday afternoon. I was sitting next to our friend, Glen* – our boys have played baseball together for the
last few years, and even though he comments on the articles I put on fb without reading them, I still let him be friends with me, because I’m cool like
Anyhow, I had brought a salad with me to the game – one I purchased at Panera Bread. I was about to eat said salad, when I accidentally dropped the fork
onto the grass. I picked it up quickly, considered it, then stated the following:
Me: Oh, well.
Me: I probably have another fork in the car.
Glen*: You’re throwing that one away? Why?
Me: Because it fell on the grass.
Glen*: Are you kidding me?
I was about to explain that yeah, I don’t know if a dog had peed there, pesticides, bottoms of people’s shoes, etc., etc., etc. But before I had the chance,
Glen*: Are you KIDDING me??? Do you have any idea where that FORK has been?
Me: *blank stare*
Glen*: You’re gonna throw that fork away because it touched a little grass? That fork is made outta petroleum. It’s made of OIL. It’s
PLASTIC. They pulled the oil from the ground to make that fork!
Glen*: Do you have any idea how many CHEMICALS are in that fork you were about to PUT INTO YOUR MOUTH? You know how many hands probably have touched that fork you were about to put into your mouth?
Me: I… uh… I guess not…
Glen*: And you were gonna throw it away because it touched a few blades of GRASS for a FRACTION OF A SECOND???????
Me: *starting to eat my salad with that same fork*
About five minutes of silence go by as I eat my salad, though I was admittedly a little less hungry as a result of this conversation.
Then, Glen* reaches down and pulls up some grass and tosses it to the side.
Me: What did you do that for?
Glen*: That grass was no good anymore. The fork touched it.
*I changed Glenn’s name from “Glenn” to “Glen” to protect his identity and privacy.
About the Author
About the Author: When Aliza Worthington was little, she wanted to be a ballerina. And the first female catcher for the New York Mets. Neither happened, but she still loves ballet and baseball. And glassblowing. And “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” And her kids. And husband. And friends. And, now, writing. Come along for the ride on the A-Train, which could stand for either “Aliza” or “ADHD” or “Anything She Happens To Feel Like Writing.” You can find Aliza on her blog TheWorthingtonPost. Follow her on twitter at @AlizaWrites.