There’s no problem that can’t be solved by yogurt.
At least, you might think that’s how I feel, given the twenty three individually sized yogurt cups currently occupying the entire top shelf of my refrigerator.
Yes, twenty three. And yes, I counted. (Full disclosure: one of those twenty three yogurts is actually more of a multiple serving sized tub. I was downplaying things to seem more hip and cool.)
God, I wish I actually liked eating it. I mean, my children sort of like it, but when I personally think of yogurt, the main word that comes to mind is: vomitous. As in, it tastes how I imagine somebody else’s vomit would taste, but with fruit-on-the-bottom. No amount of honey or freaky mix-in’s can ever compensate for that, and by “freaky”, naturally, I mean bananas. My mortal enemy.
(Sidebar: Dear Manufacturers of Yogurt. Why give up at the last stage of the yogurt making process? I have paid you good money. Please ensure that in the future you complete the final step and mix the fruit in for me. You have not left enough room at the top of the yogurt cup for me to do this comfortably myself. The next time you want to market something by making things more difficult for mothers everywhere, please let me know so that I can come over there and slap you. Best Regards.)
I’m a big person. I can admit that roughly once a year I will throw half a cup onto a baked potato or something, but after that I’m usually good for another 364 yogurt-less days. And yes, I realize that I’m very mysterious and capricious. I have told myself many times that it is part of my charm.
But this isn’t really about “yogurt”, and how weird all of you are for liking it so much.
This is about my response to stress, and how whenever I am confronted with said stress, I develop a kind of yogurt-amnesia’ that causes me to go out and buy more and more of it, until it dominates every other food product in my fridge. The other day I even caught it bullying the sour cream.
That was a stupid joke. It was not bullying the sour cream. It was just being condescending toward the sour cream, since there are no known circumstances anymore in which the sour cream can’t simply be replaced with a dollop of yogurt, even in Beef Stroganoff. At this point, I have to ask: is nothing sacred?
The thing is that buying yogurt is, for me, some kind of demented fight-or-flight response to stress. And it only applies to yogurt. No other food product. When things get out of control in my home, the way I bring things down to a simmer, is by simply smoothing everything over with an inch thick layer of Fage.
A very important writing deadline is approaching! There are two after work parent-teacher conferences scheduled simultaneously at school and my husband is out of town for three days!
“I should make sure we have enough yogurt in the house.”
The baby has a random stomach bug! We are living in the shadow of a dirty laundry pile to rival Kilimanjaro! Someone just broke into our car and stole our laptops with all of our work and personal information on them!
“I’m going to the store. I feel like we’re out of yogurt.”
A goat is running around loose in our apartment! The baby just picked up a serious smoking habit! The Roomba has attained sentience! It’s looking at me with an evil glint in its robot eye!
“I’ll be right back. Agh! Yogurt!”
It’s been such a tough week that my husband, never one to enjoy the grocery shopping, has volunteered to go on my behalf. Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘volunteering’ as much as simply just ‘firing me.’ The look on his face as he does so, simultaneously conveys sympathy and tenderness toward my obviously fragile mental state, but mostly terror. Terror that all of this yogurt stockpiling means that something is going to go terribly wrong and somehow intrude on the super-fun-man-weekend he has planned.
Because when someone has a super-fun-man-weekend planned, they simply can’t afford to get crushed under a pile of assorted flavors of Greek yogurt when they open up the fridge.
And who can blame him? That shit is gross.