Irony is everywhere in modern America — even at our gas pumps.
I was at a gas pump earlier today, filling my tank with petroleum and corn, when I glanced above the pump and noticed a small, rectangular, faded PSA sign that perfectly epitomizes what’s wrong with the country right now. I read it. I pumped. I did a double-take and read it again. I pumped some more. Then I read it again. Eventually I was just staring at this sign, wide-eyed, zombie-like, almost like it was my new god. Sure it was just a little sign, but it was the most enlightening experience to have ever occurred at a Chevron this side of Tibet (their Chevrons pipe in the sound of one hand clapping).
The PSA (public service announcement) was promoting healthy eating habits. On it a sensibly-dressed Asian man in his late 20’s, with a fake smile and a generally healthy-looking physique was holding out a fork with a chunk of pineapple in front of him, as if offering it to you. If he had been 3-D, the fork would’ve been jumping out of the sign, toward your mouth. Surrounding this paragon of health were suggestions for what foods you, the gas pumper, should eat, none of which were available for purchase inside the Chevron, of course. Ironic point #1.
The suggestions were rational. Eat fruit. Maybe don’t upgrade your triple-cheeseburger with bacon slices and a mayonnaise smoothie. Vegetables are good for you. The advice was all essentially what your kindergarten teacher said. It was good advice. Point #2.
My revelation, my moment of clarity, my “ah-motherfucking-ha” came when it hit me that the sign above the gas pump was advising me to be healthy, to live my life in a generally more responsibly dietary manner, but reading this sage vitality counsel was making me a little woozy because I was, at the time, inhaling carbon monoxide. Big-ass point #3.
I do think America is now at the beginning of a collective journey toward better health. Michelle Obama helped. The farm-to-table movement, while still too expensive, is a step in the right direction. The fact that health insurance premiums are now more expensive than our grandparents’ first cars has helped. Our new anti-smoking stance has helped, though this comes with its own dollop of irony because it’s not really the tobacco that’s been killing us as much as all the crap we’ve added to it in the name of greed. We’ve done the same thing to our food, adding preservatives to make carrots look “fresh” a year after most horses would’ve turned their stupid, giant horse-noses up at them (and they’re not the most discriminating dieters, those horses).
We are now in a period of transition. We have the awareness that we’re all unhealthy slobs well on our way to Type III Diabetes (newly-discovered medical condition that can only occur when you’ve eaten so much cake icing that you even crave high-fructose corn syrup in your toothpaste), but we’re just barely starting to do something about it. Of course, most of our new-found obsession with diet and exercise is fueled by vanity and sex-drive, but so what? It’s still making us think twice about Arby’s, and that’s never a bad thing.
In this transition period, however, we’re kind of stuck in a place where we’re not seeing the forest for the trees. Yes, we’re shopping at Earth Fare, but we’re still letting our companies dump toxic chemicals into our drinking water. Yes, we’re exercising a tad more, but we’re still not smart enough to wear gas masks in rush-hour traffic. Sure, we’ve realized that the portion size of the average American dinner for one is larger than the portion size of the average Tanzanian dinner for seventeen, but we’re still sending pre-made surplus tee-shirts for the team that loses the Super Bowl to the third world instead of cheap medicine. Can you see the pattern yet?
I have faith in America. We’re a malleable people. Don’t believe me? Ask an 85-year old transgender black man if America can change.
I do think we’ll get to a healthier place eventually, hopefully losing enough weight just in time for us to fit into the 18th century human-size seats on the Tostito spaceship, for resettlement on Zuckerearth, the Goldilocks planet in the Bezos Galaxy where all the crops taste like caramel but the surfing is awesome. (And, given the times, our new planet will surely have corporate sponsorship. In fact my bet is that we’re each going to be forced to change our middle names to the financial planning firm of our choice.)
T-minus twenty years and 2,000,000 heart attacks and counting…