On Top Ramen

You can imagine the looks I got, a college age young man, making my way to the late night grocery store crowd to the checkout with little more than an enormous box of Top Ramen. Typical, they seemed to say. That’s men for you. Never mind the fact that I’d also picked up yeast for the foccacia I was planning on making the next day. I was a cliché.
Top Ramen is easy. Few people know how to make it right, how to keep the noodles from getting gummy and transparent and making the house reek of classlessness and sloth. When I boil water on my stove it smells like the house is burning down. I thought things might be different if we condescended to line to burners with foil but to no avail. The hot water goes over the noodles and salty pork flavoring, already waiting in the bowl. And it only takes a few pokes of the fork to soften your lunch to chewing consistency.
I set the box on the checkout conveyor belt and braced myself for the painful banter I’d undoubtedly have with the checker upon his discovery of my all-too-typical eating habits. The girl bagging my groceries, though, was in no way going to let me steal that man’s attention away from her. She had a flirtatious giggle or a mindless tease for every twenty-cent packet of soup he had to ring up. The girl behind me in line was quick to inform me that some canned peas or corn could help legitimize my meal choice and I wondered when she’d stocked up and if she’d waited until 12:00 am on a weeknight to avoid the looks of scrutiny and judgment.
I love food. Had I the means, every meal would be special. And there’s no way I’d waste time with any food item with “convenience” on the package. However, if I can fill up for two dimes and one bowl to wash I’m a happy man. I don’t brag about my simple peasant food, but if I can swallow sodium-heavy, processed, imitation Asian pasta, I can swallow my pride long enough to get through lunch.
I got home with three bags, two of which were filled with the Top Ramen whose box the bagging girl couldn’t seem to negotiate into a single bag without abandoning all sense of order and resorting to unceremonious dumping. She’d smiled coyly at the checker then and he took my credit card to swipe. The living room was full of friends who laughed politely at my tale and more scornfully at the contents of the bags. The reusable canvas grocery sacks that made me feel more socially conscious hung jealously on the wall in the laundry room. Not so jealous, perhaps, that they’d have been stuffed with embarrassing college food.
I’m not a cliché. I just eat Top Ramen. And someday I’ll stop being so ashamed. Or I’ll somehow find myself in a position where I don’t have to worry about price or dishes to wash by hand. And I wonder which will come first.