The word "lunch" had no real meaning until school - which makes absolute sense as it's become this sorta structured midpoint in our stupidly organized existences. Too despondent you say? Too cynical? From an early age we're propagandized into fetishizing this daily break time that allows enough space for a meal, and as romantic as I am about nostalgia and food, the charm wore off before high school.
In the 18th century, as breakfast and dinner started to gain some distance between each other, the noonday nosh was put into place. The industrial age introduced the packed lunch, establishing the lunch box (or "lunch kit" as it's actually called). And this textured history of high society and working class culminated into me sitting in a cafeteria of fluorescent light and the potpourri of rock-bottom cleansers and month-old marinara.
I brought a lunch from Day One, assembled by my own mother, constructed to my own specific tastes. Film & television informed me that this was standard practice, so this prison veneer of lining up for plastic trays of congealed reds & browns created this sorta busy and disruptive atmosphere that was not conducive to dining. "Hot lunch" is what they called it, which made it sound as cheap and unappetizing as it smelled -- by that same token, my room temperature lunch routinely felt more like an obligation than a reward. But wherever fun was able to be had, I had it.
I prefer to travel lite - I don't even dick around with keychains. But if I was to be required to haul an extra piece of luggage to school every day you know I'd seize it as the form of expression that it was. At that age, those early years, it was the fashion statement, and those of us who weren't doomed to brown bags or stuck in line with dollars & cents understood the severity and finality of this statement.
Out of what was probably mere frugality, I only ever upgraded once , but I'll say Ghostbusters and Beetlejuice are good goalposts for this little era of time - in pop culture and in my own life. And while the contents of these boxes were never as exciting as their stickered graphic, there was always something lurking in its contents that was more glamorous than whatever rinky-dink sandwich I had: Handi-Snacks, Airheads, Tid-bits, Pizzarias, Slim Jims, Shark Bites, and all other kindsa commercialized salts & sugars had their stretch as a side dish - giving me something to look forward to.
I wish I could remember all of them; every ziplocked pretzel and culinary combination, Ham & Cheese, PB & J, Keebler and Nabisco, Frito Lay and Hostess -- I'm sure there were Ninja Turtles nibbles or Super Mario morsels and shit like that, stuff to remind me of life outside of Social Studies and Gym. And I think it was around 5th or 6th grade when the poles shifted and this forced, noisy socialization over sliced peaches and warm mayonnaise lost the already-compromised amount of charm it held for me. It became an abrasive, contemptuous chore consisting of anxiety and bullying that just became a dreadful disruption in every single day. No Cheez-Its were worth this; the actual academic side of school may've been tedious and wasteful, but there was a semblance of peace and order: an atmosphere I began to crave - all the way up until my current grownup condition - possibly as a direct result of the cruelty and chaos created by my peers.
30 YEARS LATER
I abandoned lunch at the start of high school and I've never looked back. Even now, as part of the workforce, its flimsy allure is a transparent distraction from whatever it is that steals your sunshine. You know when the smarmy villain says "I don't like to mix business with pleasure..." That's me, I'm the villain who doesn't like to do that; I fetishize food too intensively to let the dirt of duty pervert something as sacred as a snack or meal. Besides, eating clouds my ambition to do much of anything; perhaps if a socially acceptable lunch consisted of Wild Turkey 101, 2 milligrams of Lorazepam, and a daydream, that typically less productive second leg of the workday might see a favorable spike on some generic chart.
But I get it. I get the cult: all food and no work makes for something to look forward to on a daily basis; I'm just not part of it. But I love the word - "Lunch" - the lopsidedness of the light "L" and the gruff "ch" sums up the unevenness of everything it has to offer. And in a more abstract way it has a spontaneous, Pavlovian effect on me, like "Recess" or "Trick or Treat" or other words or phrases that had a lotta power for a period of time but no longer have any present-day pertinence - except for the nostalgia.
So that's all "lunch" is to me now: a retro time warp, and throwback dance party, a monument to an officially licensed plastic box that I opened halfway through my schoolday as a reminder that Mom wasn't too far away. To indulge in it now would be childish role-play, which pushes a little further and farther beyond how I choose to digest my warm memories; I can't look upon a can of Del Monte or tuna sandwich without looking back fondly on my time in the trenches. That's how my nostalgia works: idealizing the past through a veil of optimism, recognizing what was good, and utilizing it in a manageable and sane way. And so I'm trying to run a blog here. Now will you go to lunch? Go to lunch! Will You Go To Lunch!
- Paul
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