Just the other day while driving back from dropping my little assistant off at preschool, I was shoving french fries in my mouth two at a time, and, in a moment of out-and-out panic, I thought, "When did I turn into Leoda?!"
Leoda was a neighbor up the road that my mom rode horses with on a regular basis. She was a rather "sturdy" woman who often wore figure-conforming purple pants and owned two Palomino horses, hers being named Taco. I can still recall the rhythmic, laboring grunts of poor Taco as Leoda bounced up and down during a fast trot. 
But the real point of this reminiscing is that on the rare occasion that Mom would treat us by going out to Long John Silver's with Leoda, Leoda always ate her french fries two at a time. My sister and I would watch as she pounded down those greasy fries like a competitive eating champion. Undoubtedly as a result of this trauma, for years now, I've carefully eaten my fries one at a time . . . at least I thought I had. Somewhere along the line--perhaps after that fateful 35th birthday--I'd cast my solemn vow aside and become Leoda.Ostensibly, I was trying to quickly eat something before becoming the milk station for the screaming child behind me, but upon reflection, I have to wonder if I was really just making paltry excuses.
Does this mean I have to buy purple pants now?
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