Thursday, May 10, 2012

As much as I’ve grown to despise oatmeal, having consumed enough packets to last a lifetime, I’ve also come to regard it as more than a breakfast food. These little bags are units of time, like hash marks on a wall, and on some mornings, I don’t see box after box of Maple & Brown Sugar & Monotony. No, I see history.

124. That’s the current count. The last time we spoke on the matter, I was still at 180. You know what they call that, right? Progress. But when I think back, way back, well before the 180, I’m reminded of how far these boxes have traveled with me. Before I tore open the very first packet, I was in a different place. Different friends. Different juncture in my career. Different level of sociability. Different economy. Different in how I perceived golf. It’s been an odyssey of oats.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m being nostalgic out of necessity, rather than for nostalgia’s sake, and I’d love for nothing more than to rid myself of this shit. The dream is always the same: to wake up one morning and have waffles, or yogurt and granola, or pancakes, or, hell, even a Pop Tart. I’d add breakfast sandwiches to the list, only my favorite spot for those closed down sometime around the 150th packet. But persist I must because the finish line is in sight, the taste of freedom so close at hand.