Of Bean Dip and Toilet Paper

It’s been said that a man is only capable of perceiving the world as it truly exists in the 20 seconds immediately following orgasm. It’s said that, in these rare moments, he is able to catch a fleeting glimpse of reality, untainted by his own hormonal tendencies, social pressures, and misconceptions about the world. The doors of perception are said to throw open, casting the blinding light of truth on all he can survey.

The opportunities for these moments occur much more frequently, but perhaps it is only in that uniquely clear-headed state that most men are able to acknowledge them. These incidents are what addicts refer to as a “moment of clarity,” the split-second when their drug addled brains send a completely fogless signal to their consciousness and they are able, usually for the first time, to see who they truly are.

I was in the self-checkout line at the grocery store yesterday. I went to the grocery store to obtain the two things the modern man needs to survive: bread and beer. The bread was to be used for a delicious spicy artichoke garlic bread, the beer was for drinking, because that’s what I drink in the Summer. Walking into the supermarket, through the deli aisle, I caught a glimpse of something tantalizing: 7-layer dip.

Perhaps my biggest mistake, one I make with disastrous regularity, is shopping on my way home from work, a point in the day when the only sustenance that has passed my lips is a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich.

The thought of digging a think, hearty corn chip into layer after layer of cheese and guacamole and sour cream was just too much to bear. I picked it up and made my way to the self-checkout.

Bread: $2.99. I know it’s a lot for bread, but good bread makes good spicy artichoke garlic bread. Beer: $6.49. Again, a tad on the expensive side, but you tell me Abita Restoration Ale isn’t worth every penny (if you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up).

Dip: $16.99.

I was speechless. I was aghast. I was flabbergasted. I was……without speech.

I looked around me at the other folks checking out eggs and milk on their way home. I huffed, hoping someone would look up so I could point to the 10” dish of canned beans and processed cheese they expected someone to pay $17.00 for. No one looked, they just quietly bagged their wine and adult magazines.

I was incensed. Seventeen fucking dollars?! For bean dip?! What has this world come to? Anyone out there willing to shell out close to $20 for refried beans, shredded “cheese” and guacamole flavored dippy sauce needs to contact me immediately because I’ve got some amazing real estate opportunities tell you about.

It was at that precise moment, when I was able to see myself standing at a self-checkout kiosk in a supermarket, holding a plastic dish of bean dip, staring at like it was dancing the Charleston, that I realized I was old.

Okay, to be fair, being thrifty does not equate being old. I’ve always been thrifty. I’ve always been of the mind that the good life can be purchased at a discount if you just wait and look around enough. The difference is, that as a younger man, making even less money than I do now, I would have bought the fucking bean dip because I wanted it. Sure, I would have bitched about how much it cost to anyone that would listen, but I would be doing it with a mouthful of delicious 7-layer dip.

I’m reminded of once, when my little brother and I were perhaps seven and five years old, respectively. He and I were on our parents’ bed watching cartoons. Dad walked into the room in a mild tizzy clutching a roll of toilet paper. “I just replaced this roll yesterday!” he exclaimed. We were both at a loss for words. Possible responses to that statement were limited. Dad pulled off the last three sheets clinging to the cardboard tube and he looked us dead in the eyes. “When you use toilet paper, don’t just grab a whole bunch and wad it up, fold like this.” He diligently folded three squares of toilet paper into a neat cleaning apparatus in the palm of his hand. He stared at us.

The only response we could muster was to laugh so hard we started crying and we both fell off the bed. Thankfully, my Dad, able to see the humor in the situation (especially since he was in his underwear at the time) and started to chuckle as well. That lesson always stuck in my head as the inane activity of old people.

Yesterday afternoon in the supermarket was my equivalent of the toilet paper speech. I’m not just an adult, I’m an adult who gets pissed off about the price of bean dip. What’s next? Am I going to start clipping coupons to save thirty cents on a brand of canned chili I don’t even like?

I suppose it truly is all relative. Do I feel old? No. Do I feel entirely justified in making a big deal over bean dip? You damn’ tootin’. Some people say you’re only as old as you feel, but that’s clearly bullshit. When you go to buy a car and the salesman says, “It’s a 1995 model, but it drives just like the 2000 model!” you would look at him like he fell on his neck. What the hell does “old” even feel like?

My dad would say enlarged prostate, possibly throw in something about a colonoscopy.

Is this really about bean dip? Certainly not. It’s not even about getting older, or time slipping away. It’s about how perception can change based solely on how long you’ve been perceiving. My unwillingness to part with seventeen of my hard earned dollars shows that reason, for the first time in my life, trumps my love for tex-mex inspired snack foods.

You’re only as old as you are. That’s the only truth out there, but age means different things to everyone. Murakami didn’t write anything until he was twenty-nine years old. Of course, Mozart composed his first music when he was five. Again, I suppose it’s relative.

That being said, you all have to admit, $17.00 for bean dip is absolutely preposterous, even if I do need the fiber.