Some people can eat anything and never suffer falling crumbs, spots of marinara sauce on a white blouse, or dropped corn kernels. I am not one of those people. I have an interesting relationship with food. I try to eat it and it tries to get away from me.
I once stabbed myself with a letter opener while trying to dig a crumb out of a computer keyboard. If I eat a muffin at my desk, the surface of the furniture ends up looking like it was just in a coffee cake snowstorm.
I get crumbs on myself, too. They have even fallen into my blouse. I don’t like to carry food in my brassiere. So I end up looking like a spastic contortionist, trying to get it out.
My white tops are magnets for anything messy and hard to wash out, like anything oily. It is inevitable that at least one little drop of the oily stuff will sneak out of my spoon or off my fork and fall onto what was a clean blouse. Chances are good that I won’t discover the spot until it has bonded itself in marriage to the fabric, never to be parted.
None of this is going to stop me from eating, of course.