I like eating hot dogs. I do not like touching hot dogs. For as long as I can remember, every time I’ve had to transfer a hot dog from its original package to the grill, pot of water, microwave (depending on how lazy I am that day), I’ve cringed. There’s just something about the uncooked hot dog’s feel in my hands that is disgusting to me. It probably has something to do with how even cooked hot dogs are pretty gross if you think about it, but when I have a cooked hot dog in a bun, I don’t think about it.
Anyway, for years I have suffered through the transfer of the hot dog. It was only seconds at a time, of course, that I had to suffer, but added up across all of the times I’ve made hot dogs in my life, that comes to a lot of seconds–minutes, even; maybe even hours!
Yesterday, I did the unthinkable: I took out 2 hot dogs from their package, placed them on a plate, and stuck the plate in the microwave (the ultimate in lazy, but I’m sick, so that’s my excuse this time). Without cringing. Without thinking to myself how gross it was. I just completed the actions instinctively, as if I were born to prepare hot dogs.
If I didn’t already eat hot dogs more than is probably safe for the average human, I would say this new-found comfort with which I handled the food would spur me to make them much more often. But that would mean eating them about once a week, which even I have to admit is a little too frequently. So instead, I will simply say that I feel like I matured a little yesterday. The uncooked hot dog no longer has any power over me, and because of that, my future looks so much brighter.
Or at least my future pertaining to cooking hot dogs. But you know, I’ll take it.