Last week I ate a peach for the first time in thirty-one years.
I’m from the South, so it’s kind of a sacrilege that I have chosen not to partake in this fuzzy nectar of the gods for the past three decades.
No, I’m not allergic. I have a much deeper and more disturbing reason.
I had a nightmare when I was three or four years old. Amazingly, even after all this time, it is still vivid in my mind. There was a balding actor in The Electric Company, a kids’ show that used to come on PBS after Sesame Street.
I normally had no problem with this guy, but in my nightmare, he chased down my mother and pulled out her eyeballs. Then he replaced them with peach pits! She came staggering toward me with her arms stretched out like a peach-pit-eyed zombie. I woke up completely traumatized.
From that night on, I could not eat a peach.
When I was about 15, I had nearly overcome my phobia… or so I thought. My mom, however, with her twisted sense of humor, caused a relapse.
One day, she called, “Hey, Devone, come in here and look at this!"
Naively, I assumed she just had something interesting to show me, but when I came into the kitchen she turned around from the sink holding two revolting brown peach pits up to her eyes!
Of course, she nearly laughed her head off when I screamed my head off.
I’m not quite as warped (almost, but not quite) as my mom. Since my kids love fruit – apples, berries, oranges, bananas, grapes, you name it – I realized that I have been selfishly depriving them the opportunity to make their own decisions regarding The Dreaded Peach.
Because I never allow them in my house, let alone search them out in the produce aisle, the girls are very limited when it comes to peach exposure.
Against my better judgment, I decided to bite the bullet/peach last week. On a whim, while I was at Sam’s Club, I bought a box of white peaches. (They seemed less threatening than the peach-colored ones, for some reason). I brought them home and watched as my kids slurpily devoured them, skins and all.
The next day, I found myself home alone. Cleaning out the dishwasher and minding my own business, my gaze came to rest upon the one solitary peach remaining on the premises.
It seemed to taunt me, staring up from its unassuming cardboard box. It was me against the peach. Woman versus fruit. I decided that I must prove my dominance over this tree-scourge.
I took it in my hand, drew in a deep breath, raised it to my lips, and took a bite.
Well, it didn’t kill me.
It was actually a bit anticlimactic.
I think my girls realize that I tend to be somewhat melodramatic; they seem relatively worry-free about my fruit fears. As a matter of fact, they are awaiting my next trip to Sam’s, since the peaches have long since run out. Maybe I’ll go this weekend.
In case you were wondering, though – the peach that I ate did not live up to the hype. But I'm open to the idea that it may have been psychological.
from my 7/24/11 article for www.mentorpatch.com
