Bananas are the worst things in the world. And in a world with murderers, terrorists, rapists, pedophiles and cats, that’s saying something. I dislike everything about bananas: the way they smell (both with and without peel), the way they look (like a willy), their booger-like texture, the way they sneak up on you in smoothies and desserts, and when the man seated next to you on the bus starts eating one and you can’t escape because your stop is fifteen minutes away and you’re already late for work.
Apparently I used to eat mashed up bananas when I was a baby. In fact, mum tells me that mashed up banana was my favourite thing to eat, second only to capers. This thought repulses me; if there’s one thing worse than a whole banana it’s one that’s been mashed up. You know how muddling mint leaves brings out their wonderful aroma? Well, that’s what mashing a banana does, except the aroma is about as far from wonderful as humans are to understanding the meaning of life.
I haven’t eaten a banana in close to twenty years (for the record, I’m twenty-three). Although, there’s one regret-filled exception. Once upon a time, ten years or so ago, I was home alone. Bored and in the mood to exit my comfort zone, I set out to try a banana. I stood by the fruit bowl, terrified, and selected the banana I thought might be least offensive of two. I peeled back it’s thick, ugly skin trying not to touch the gooey fruit underneath. In hindsight, I should have worn gloves…and perhaps a gas-mask. I raised the yellow devil to my lips and took a bite from its tip (that sounds dirty, doesn’t it?). The taste of that small amount of banana in my mouth has stayed with me forever, and it’s horrible. I forced myself to swallow (dirty!), only to re-live that awful taste as it came back up immediately after. I’ve thought about therapy but that would require me to discuss this horrific experience on a weekly basis and that’s not something I’m prepared to do.
I came close to eating banana on one other occasion. It was my cousin’s birthday two years ago and my beautiful grandmother brought along a plate of home-made chocolate chip muffins. Now, if you’ve ever eaten a dessert good baked by my grandmother, you can understand how quickly I jumped at her muffins (yes, that sounds dirty too, but let’s not bring my grandmother into this). With her muffin half-way to my lips (!), I realised something awful. My nose twitched, my gag-reflex triggered and I realised that these beautiful looking chocolate chip muffins were in fact banana chocolate chip muffins. I put the muffin down, washed my hands of the sin like Lady Macbeth, and was too scared to eat anything else. Grandma ruined my cousin’s birthday party, and came quite close to ruining my life.
Bananas are out to get me. I see them on the street, in the kitchen at work, and on just about every breakfast item of every café menu. On more than one occasion I’ve found a banana or three in my bed because a friend has played a practical joke. (Note to Genevieve: one day soon I am going to pull out a chunk of my hair and put it on your pillow. Let’s see how funny you find that to be.) Living in a world with bananas is tough, but I suppose there’s not much I can do about it. I know that asking you to stop eating bananas might be selfish, but had you ever considered that your eating bananas around me is selfish, too? That’s right, you hadn’t. And that makes you a pretty bad
egg banana. How do you like them apples bananas?