The Strawberry

You like them all, but your favorites are strawberries. You eat them at the average rate of one pound a day, which translates to something like $28.49 a week, $34.99 if you go fancy, organic. That's insane, but you have your reasons: no food better represents happiness, red is your favorite color, you're trying to prevent cancer.

Between the running, the toning, the sunless tan, and the strawberries, you'd been feeling very healthy of late. Your mind was on physicality and off, well, itself. You were ignoring the fact that you hadn't been writing, hadn't been reading, hadn't been keeping up with smart publications/current events/oil changes. I can't, I don't have time, I hafta go running. It slips away quickly. You start forgetting words, losing arguments, losing track. It's terrible, but hey, the endorphins are pumping (or whatever they say) so you're happy and even better - you're healthy.

But when you're sitting on the shoulder of the beltway with a smoking, dead vehicle, you're not healthy anymore. You're sick because you know you've just lost your strawberries. Your monthly berry bill is half the coming car payment. You have to get to work, but you don't have to be healthy. You don't have to feel good. You don't have to eat expensive fruit.

So you do some reading, some research. You remember words like interest and emissions, what they mean - no really, what they mean that you suddenly have to do. You skip a day of running and go to the store. You pick out a new car. You say goodbye to your old car. It was with you for nine years, mostly causing trouble, kind of like a spouse, in sickness and in health, nine crazywild years that changed you. The new car works quietly and well. It's not exciting; it's dependable and predictable. If it were a person , it would probably read the Washington Post. It's red, the color of a ripe strawberry, and you're paying for it yourself - first time you've ever done that. It feels healthy, just not like healthy used to feel.