The day yogurt fought back.

I like yogurt. I really do. I just don’t think yogurt likes me.

Once upon a time, I hated yogurt. Thought it was the grossest thing that had ever been invented, no matter how good for you it was supposed to be. Then, sometime in 2004 or 2005, when my brother lived in NOLA and was going to seminary and working at a Christian camp in Loranger, LA, I decided to give yogurt another try while visiting him. My brother had tons of yogurt in his fridge (I can’t remember if it was overstock from camp or what), but I was hungry one morning and decided to try it. And I liked it! (In my defense, I hear your tastes and taste buds change as you age. So what you hated as a child might be a favorite now.)

I liked yogurt. Heck, I loved it. And I ate it all the time. I still buy it periodically, and though I’m picky about what flavors I get, I genuinely like it.

Then, someone brought little yogurt cups for a snack in our department meeting today. That’s fine. Kind of refreshing after all the eating we did in this department over Christmas that wasn’t even remotely healthy. But I opened my yogurt cup, and it spit on me. Yep, yogurt on my pants. Fun!

But that’s not all. Then there was this moment in which I have no idea how or what happened. I was holding my spoon, then I was wearing the contents of it on my jacket. I looked like a baby had spit up on me. I think I basically sling-shot yogurt onto myself. How, you ask? I. Have. No. Idea. It’s part of the intrigue, mystery, and joy of being me.

Really, I should not tell these stories in public. Or I should learn how to feed myself. Or market the adult bib.

I am one classy lady.