The Insidious American Diet
I am at swim practice. My daughter swims. You know, swimming. Suit. Goggles. Water.
I was told she should buy a swim cap. And kick-board. And mesh bag. And flippers. And a club membership to the pool AND team membership.
And a funded escrow account to pay for the swim meet entry fees.
Escrow account? Did I just buy a house?
The coach tells me when the swimmers get competitive, they wear special swimsuits which cost $300. The suits are only good for about a dozen individual races. A wave of anxiety crashes onto me.
I walk to the lobby and pull a half hoagie from my computer bag. I’d been saving it. It tastes good. I can feel some satisfaction from the thin bread, slices of meat and cheese, and hot peppers grinding around in my mouth. It’s real. It’s tangible. It’s bought and paid for.
I’m talking with some other dads up in the bleachers of the natatorium while the kids do laps. We’re loud, going on about a Viking show. “The real problem is King Alfred just isn’t assertive enough. Uhtred, now he knew how to rally troops for battle.” Agreement all around. We switch topics to another show we like, this one sci-fi. “The thing about space battles is, there’s no fire in space.” The less we know about astrophysics, the louder we get. “You don’t want to be shooting off guns…
