After a bike ride with a friend, I settled down with a bowl of white cheddar popcorn and a potpourri of channels to flip to. Feet up, Food Network/HGTV/Nickelodeon on; living the dream. (I eventually settled on Full House – the episode where 13-year-old D.J. gets “caught” drinking… now I’m convinced drinking is bad.) And I don’t generally watch television, but the three 40-inch HDTVs in our suite has made it appealing as of late.
So anyway, there I am, munching on some popcorn and laughing at D.J. Tanner’s outfit. Exhilarating, I know.
Some seeds had not popped, but I mashed them with my teeth before swallowing. Ouch.
I froze. I seriously froze and forgot all about D.J. and the beer Uncle Jesse found her holding.
For a split second, I felt fear course through me at the thought of that seed traveling down my esophagus and landing –– plunk! –– into the acidic wasteland I call my stomach.
Oh no! What if it ends up growing out of me? What will I do then?
When I came to my senses, I realized that these musings were the most childish thoughts I’ve had in a long time. But the tiny seed in my stomach brought back memories of Adam and me, burying popcorn seeds in the garden, hoping to grow a popcorn tree.
We had no doubts –– plant the seeds and trees shall grow!
…except they never did. But we didn’t notice –– we had moved on by then, anyway.
I wish I could afford to have that simple, short attention span again. And I also wish the seed would actually grow in my tummy. That’d be pretty cool.