A coworker once had a sign on her desk that said “You can’t please everyone all the time. You are not an avocado.”
I belly laughed when I saw it – TRUE THAT! – but deep down, I considered the fact that I’ve always tried to be … had to be … the avocado.
A versatility player … infield, outfield, pitcher, catcher. Shit, I’ve gone through life trying to sell concessions, take tickets and play short stop … simultaneously.
Student-athlete-over-achiever-comprehensive-pretender was my default so why would fruit-that-presents-as-vegetable be a problem?
You see avos, hard on the outside and soft and soothing on the inside, are nothing if not contra-indicated.
They present as firm but flexible enough to adapt to any challenge: breakfast, lunch or dinner.
And yet … we all know they can fail epically … the strange strings, the dark spots, the unpredictable, incongruent consistency, even though they called out to you as PERFECT at Trader Joes.
Avos, then, are nothing if not surprising. We have that in common.
Like the time I got arrested for resisting a peace officer six hours after crushing the LSAT. (In my defense, my prefrontal cortex was still a work in progress, or in avo-parlance, I was not quite ripe.)
Or the time when I blew up my ostensibly Rockwellian marriage.
What is hidden beneath that deep green, outer casing, the cave-person must have wondered, before slicing it open to find the treasure within?
One never knows –- and that’s surely the point, the magic and the mystery of the avocado – and me.*
* And all women.