Back when I used to love cereal, or maybe thought that was the only thing we were supposed to eat for breakfast, I had a strange routine. The cereal cabinet was home to no less than four different varieties: Golden Crisp, Life, and Frosted Flakes always took up residence there, with at least one other brand mom wanted to try. I think my favorite might have been Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and sometimes my parents would get it for me, but I wasn't terribly devoted to it. I'm sure I just preferred it so I could drink the sweet cinnamon-sugared milk afterwards. I also liked Cocoa Pebbles, as it created every kid's favorite chocolate milk. But I didn't like how both Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles got soggy fairly quick, so I didn't opt for them much. Peanut Butter Crunch was another favorite, until about the time I realized it was murdering the roof of my mouth.
I'd slurp down a couple bowls at the kitchen table, a small fixture in such a narrow space that I wrote about before. And how I ate at this table was dependent upon anyone sitting in the adjacent living room. If people were in there - my parents, usually - I made it a point to position the cereal box between my bowl and the living room. In other words, I didn't want them to see me eating. I had no real reasoning behind this. It wasn't like they were sitting over there gawking in my direction. Their faces were either buried in newspapers, or their eyes were glued to the television screen, watching something brainless like The Weather Channel. Not to mention this cereal box wasn't all that high of an obstruction to begin with. Had I simply glanced to my left while sitting there eating, I could easily see them. None of this mattered, however. The cereal box became both my barrier and morning reading material that started the day.
The reading material evolved pretty quick. Thankfully, really - cereal boxes aren't particularly neat to read. Around early March, my hometown newspaper used to include a small preview guide of the upcoming Major League Baseball season. On its pages were recaps and player statistics from the previous season, along with league records and other bits of historical data. There were no photographs inside. One-hundred or so pages of just words and numbers I looked forward to every spring when I was young. The guide was my first real introduction to the game's history, its players past and present. There was no real substance to its content other than statistics and random numerical values, but that never stopped me from seeking it out every spring and plopping it right by my breakfast.
The lone bookshelf at the house took up space in our living room, and almost always contained The World Almanac and Book of Facts. Nine-hundred pages chock full of largely useless information one was never required to absorb to live a fulfilled life. I certainly did what I could for a few years, however. The almanac became part my spring through summer breakfast jaunts, or at least the bits and pieces I found interesting enough to consume. Geography, capitals, certain sports, notable names, and offbeat news stories were my strong suits - all totally useful information to retain decades later.
The Book of Facts phase was interrupted when my parents bought me a NBA version of the World Almanac, detailing every team's season since the inception of the National Basketball Association shortly after World War II ended. Every season entry began with a black and white image of that season's eventual league champions. The very first championship image, for example, belonged to the 1946-47 Philadelphia Warriors. Ten white guys sporting jerseys and shiny shorts, adorned by three white guys in dark suits. Some are sitting, most are standing. Each guy at the ends of the seated row holding a basketball. Players then had old timey names like Howie, Art, Ralph, and, well, Whitey. This league guide became my best breakfast friend, right up until I decided to retire from the cereal game. Once french toast sticks and waffles were brought more into play, it was game over at the kitchen table. Now I could deftly balance my breakfasts in the private confines of my bedroom. No more wobbly milk in bowls, and no more box barricades.
I'd slurp down a couple bowls at the kitchen table, a small fixture in such a narrow space that I wrote about before. And how I ate at this table was dependent upon anyone sitting in the adjacent living room. If people were in there - my parents, usually - I made it a point to position the cereal box between my bowl and the living room. In other words, I didn't want them to see me eating. I had no real reasoning behind this. It wasn't like they were sitting over there gawking in my direction. Their faces were either buried in newspapers, or their eyes were glued to the television screen, watching something brainless like The Weather Channel. Not to mention this cereal box wasn't all that high of an obstruction to begin with. Had I simply glanced to my left while sitting there eating, I could easily see them. None of this mattered, however. The cereal box became both my barrier and morning reading material that started the day.
The reading material evolved pretty quick. Thankfully, really - cereal boxes aren't particularly neat to read. Around early March, my hometown newspaper used to include a small preview guide of the upcoming Major League Baseball season. On its pages were recaps and player statistics from the previous season, along with league records and other bits of historical data. There were no photographs inside. One-hundred or so pages of just words and numbers I looked forward to every spring when I was young. The guide was my first real introduction to the game's history, its players past and present. There was no real substance to its content other than statistics and random numerical values, but that never stopped me from seeking it out every spring and plopping it right by my breakfast.
The lone bookshelf at the house took up space in our living room, and almost always contained The World Almanac and Book of Facts. Nine-hundred pages chock full of largely useless information one was never required to absorb to live a fulfilled life. I certainly did what I could for a few years, however. The almanac became part my spring through summer breakfast jaunts, or at least the bits and pieces I found interesting enough to consume. Geography, capitals, certain sports, notable names, and offbeat news stories were my strong suits - all totally useful information to retain decades later.
The Book of Facts phase was interrupted when my parents bought me a NBA version of the World Almanac, detailing every team's season since the inception of the National Basketball Association shortly after World War II ended. Every season entry began with a black and white image of that season's eventual league champions. The very first championship image, for example, belonged to the 1946-47 Philadelphia Warriors. Ten white guys sporting jerseys and shiny shorts, adorned by three white guys in dark suits. Some are sitting, most are standing. Each guy at the ends of the seated row holding a basketball. Players then had old timey names like Howie, Art, Ralph, and, well, Whitey. This league guide became my best breakfast friend, right up until I decided to retire from the cereal game. Once french toast sticks and waffles were brought more into play, it was game over at the kitchen table. Now I could deftly balance my breakfasts in the private confines of my bedroom. No more wobbly milk in bowls, and no more box barricades.
*****
Depending on my schedule, I still make it a point to eat something soon upon waking up. Coffee almost always, but that can't just be the meal. These days I try to make it a bit more hearty. No more cereals, in part because I seem to have discontinued milk from my diet. Eggs, turkey sausage, cheeses, the usual stuff that will eventually kill a person. Sometimes I mix it up and do the healthy thing - peanut butter, fruits and what have you. There is still no more kitchen table dining. I have one, but I never sit there. Mostly because there is often a mess of clothes (the laundry is in the kitchen area) and other random things I don't know what to do with. Instead, I eat at the couch. My "table" is one of two things - either a coffee table-sized book that rests on the middle couch cushion, or my old but efficient lap desk. The book is very useful in this situation. Not because it provides a source of reading, but so that I can plop open my laptop and work or browse random sites while I shove food into my mouth. The lap desk comes in handy if I have a bigger plate and prefer to aimlessly watch television, but that's been rare since I switched from cable television.
What hasn't changed much is my need for viewing something while eating. The mediums may have shifted - from paper to screen - but the desire for distraction while I'm doing something else remains the same. Writer, historian, and philosopher Will Durant once noted "we are what we repeatedly do." It's a pretty common quote I've come across in both readings and via frivolous concepts like Capital One credit card commercials. It applies well to my seemingly ongoing endeavors. Not so much with the dining habits, but with other things in my life. The feedback when seeking advice about this from others is always the same - oh you just have to get over it. You just have to block it out. Yes, of course. As if most things were meant to be that easy. Such dismissive words masquerading as real advice is all the more reason I seek solace in the corners and upstairs from parties and the like, preferring to discover remedies via screens rather than actual human interaction. Then it is back to the drawing board, perhaps with a different perspective. A different seating area. Setting stricter goals. Avoiding coping mechanisms while investing my time. Making better use of that free time.
The contrasting view to Durant's quote is one usually attributed to Albert Einstein, that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. As much as my parents didn't even care about it, I continued putting that cereal box between us, just like modern distractions today continue to block any real progress with things in my life. And now with another birthday right around the corner, I have to wonder if this enigma really is just something I need to overcome on my own.
The contrasting view to Durant's quote is one usually attributed to Albert Einstein, that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. As much as my parents didn't even care about it, I continued putting that cereal box between us, just like modern distractions today continue to block any real progress with things in my life. And now with another birthday right around the corner, I have to wonder if this enigma really is just something I need to overcome on my own.