The Unabashed Hedonist

Back in the day, before I knew better, before I had any inkling of self-control or shame, I could eat. By this I mean, I would get my allowance on Friday, walk down to the 7-11 where I would purchase a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a sixer of Mello-Yello, play a few games of Galaga, and walk home. Being the early Eighties (an era, apparently, every Republican running for president wishes it were: American Psycho) and it being Friday, I'd crack a 'Yello, open the Ranchers and plop down for a night of Miami Vice, Friday Night Videos and Night Flight, watching until the Doritos were gone and only kernels remained of some salty buttered popcorn.

And, so, the other night, when my boy grabbed a canister of puffs and proceeded to walk around, jamming his hand inside to grab a handful, and cramming said handful into his mouth, I felt that I was seeing genetics in full effect. Arm in jar up to elbow. Hand to mouth, full of puffs. Excess puffs falling to floor as Max points and grunts happily. Hand back in, up to elbow. Stuffing, pointing, grunting.

Daddy was so proud.