Another guy about my age and I are standing in the dairy section reading labels on yogurt containers. We look at each other but don’t say a word, just share a glance that says, ‘So, it’s come to this.’ It seems my stomach is under new management and the bouncer at the door is no longer letting in any spicy or greasy patrons.
The labels all read the same, so I go with price. Some are two for $6, so I choose a peach and a blueberry. I pick up some soup, rice, and bananas, then wander through the meat aisle just for old time’s sake. Ground round is on special and before my eyes the raw meat turns to thick, juicy patties on the grill. I can feel the grease trickling down my chin.
At the checkout, the girl rings up one container as $3 and the other at $4.75. It seems I have selected two different brands. I think about taking one back but the lady behind me has a crying baby in her cart and her look says, ‘You’re not going to make me wait any longer, are you?’ As a meat eater, I would have not been so easily intimidated, but today I smile and pay the extra.
To get home from the Brookswood grocery store, I must drive through a gauntlet of fast food places — McDonalds, Subway, Thai food, Chinese food, donairs, Dominos, Cravings and Starbucks. They call like sirens to ancient mariners trying to lure me on to the rocky shore.
As I pass the 7-Eleven, I think of those jumbo hot dogs slathered in relish, mustard, onions and peppers. But even in disguise and with phony ID, none of these will make it past the new bouncer.
Of course, my Mom says I just need a ‘good clearing out.’ Take some castor oil and stay regular. That is a mom’s answer to everything.
You can phone and tell her you broke your leg in two places and she will say, “Well, you’re going to be sitting around a lot, so stay regular.” Or you can tell her you’ve had a quadruple bypass and are taking four medications, she will say, “Those things can really bung you up, stay regular.”
I heard about an 80-year-old man who bragged about ‘being regular’ at seven every morning. His problem was he didn’t wake up until eight.
I open the blueberry yogurt and it looks like paint. I swear I could pour it into a tray and roll it on my walls. I slice up a banana and spoon some yogurt on top. The container says it contains actual blueberries but this must have been the last container filled that day, because there are none evident.
It tastes like paste. I think about that kid in Grade 4 and how pleased he would have been if LePages had put blueberry flavour in his white paste jar. I conjure up an image of little guys in coveralls and white painter hats applying this gloop to my stomach walls with long-handled rollers under the approving gaze of the bouncer.
They have their work cut out. They are trying to repair years of neglect and abuse.
But as we get older we learn that it is not important to be a wealthy and important man, it’s better to be a healthy and regular guy. At least that’s what McGregor says.
