chewing

I'm pretty sure the last time I bought chewing gum was years ago, and it was just because I needed something minty fresh for my breath. I think of gum as a candy of childhood, when my mom would let me get that crazy new flavor of Bubbalicious I spotted near the cash register at the grocery store.

None of my friends chew gum, and I tend to forget it exists. Two recent incidents reminded me of its presence and why I wouldn't mind if chewing gum disappeared from the real world as well as my mind.

First is that baseball play-offs were on TV, and now that the pro players have given up to chewing tobacco because of its bad image to children, they've taken to chewing giant wads of gum. It seems they can't get rid of all the old tobacco habits, though. If I played a drinking game in which I drank a sip of beer every time a baseball player spit, I'd be drunk before the first inning was over. The new face of baseball: chomping on some gum and spitting all over the place.

Second is the guy sitting two desks down from me at the public library. My internet is out due to these fun wind storms, so I packed up my laptop and headed for free internet access. I know that you can't pick your neighbors at a library; I brought headphones to try to mask any mumblers or rude cell-phone talkers. But somehow, the mouth open, smacking, chomping, slurping noises of this guy chewing his gum have permeated my Mozart. I feel like I'm sitting next to a cow chewing her cud. No, I think that might even be quieter than this guy and his chewing gum.