There are moments in life when the universe taps you on the shoulder and delivers a reality check so profound, so utterly undeniable, that it chills you to the core. For some, it might be the first gray hair. For others, it's struggling to open a jar. For me, it was a perfectly innocent basket of french fries. And let me tell you, those fries were salty. Too salty, in fact.
Now, before you scoff, understand that this declaration did not come from just anyone. This came from me. The guy who, in his younger, more reckless days, believed salt was merely a suggestion for how bland food could be. The guy who considered a bag of chips a single-serving appetizer and practically snorted the leftover salt dust from the bottom. The guy who, when confronted with a plate of fries, would instinctively grab the shaker and add more. The saltier the better, I always said.
Ditto for sweet. My mom would always wrinkle her nose at a slice of birthday cake or a sugary soda, declaring, "Oh, that's too sweet," And I’d just laugh, my mouth full of glorious, diabetic-coma-inducing goodness. "That's how it's supposed to taste, Mom!" I'd tease.
I’ve always prided myself on being something of a health nut. You kind of have to be, in my line of work as a fitness model. (Come on, you've seen the Instagram posts. I'm obsessed with my body! Then again, so are you! I feel objectified. Thank you! Really!) My diet is usually a symphony of lean proteins, complex carbs and enough leafy greens to make a rabbit jealous. But I’m also a firm believer in balance. A treat here, a cheat meal there. And for me, those treats often involved a generous dose of the good stuff: salt and sugar. Pure, unadulterated, delicious salt and sugar.
So, picture this: I’m at a bustling restaurant, enjoying an evening out. The fries arrive, golden and glistening, promising a delightful crunch. I pick up one, pop it in my mouth, and… my brow furrows. Another one. My eyes narrow. "Huh," I murmur, mostly to myself, "these fries are actually… really salty."
The words hung in the air, innocent at first, then slowly, insidiously, they began to reverberate. Within seconds, a cold dread washed over me. My face went numb. It wasn't the salt making my blood pressure rise; it was the realization. The chilling, horrifying, undeniable realization:
I'm becoming my mom.
Or, at the very least, I'm getting old.
It's one thing to preach the virtues of balanced electrolytes and moderate sodium intake. It's an entirely different beast when your very taste buds stage a coup and start rejecting the extreme pleasures of your youth.
Is this it? Is this how it starts?
First, it's the fries. Then, will I start complaining about the music being too loud? Will I begin to genuinely appreciate the nuanced flavor of unseasoned grilled chicken? Will I voluntarily choose comfortable shoes over stylish ones (heaven forbid)?
It's a bizarre form of existential crisis, brought on by fried potato. As a fitness model, my job is to defy the visible signs of aging. But what about the invisible ones? The ones that creep up on you, not with wrinkles or stiff knees, but with a sudden, inexplicable aversion to perfectly good, deliciously excessive salt?
I’m still grappling with this new reality. Maybe it's not so bad. Perhaps this is simply my palate maturing, evolving into something more refined, less… primal. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m finally understanding why my mom always had such a peculiar relationship with dessert.
The jury’s still out. But one thing's for sure: the next time I hear someone declare something "too salty" or "too sweet," I won't be laughing. I'll probably just nod sagely, a knowing, slightly melancholic look in my eye. Because I get it now. Oh, how I get it. And frankly, it tastes a little bittersweet.