Leaving no food unpicked...

For about as long as I can remember, I've been labeled a picker. Food, in my mind, is never the sum of its parts. It is these aforementioned parts, rather, that interest me.

Sandwiches are a spattering of cheese and lunchmeat, the innards of which I eat while tossing the gooey bread in the trash can. Boxes of yuletide chocolate-covered macadamia nuts transform into a tray of broken chocolate shells, the nut having been excavated with my expert fingers and popped into my eager mouth.

My hand is red on Thanksgiving morning from the slaps my mother bequeaths it as I reach for water chestnuts simmering in their hot sauté of melted butter.

Restaurants are a danger zone of their own, the menu transforming before my eyes into a mere list of ingredients of which I can create my customized meal.

"Yes, the steak salad, except maybe not steak. Have you any sea-fish? Ah, yes, just take the halibut from that entrée and instead of iceberg let's go with spinach. I'd like it without the onions, but add some avocado and balsamic vinegar on the side, please. Oh, and no croutons; perhaps just sprinkle some feta on top."

After my customized meal arrives, it is not enough to satiate my appetite. My date's meal is automatic free game, roaming the table in anticipation of being picked at. Upon my first bite, I usually receive a quizzical look and something to the effect of,

"Umm, did you want some?"

"Heavens no. But maybe I can just have the crab on top of your sushi?"

Piles of discarded calamari breading litter my side of the table along with lonely corn chips after I have sipped the salsa bowl dry as though it were soup.

Yes, my eating habits are irreparably disordered.

Today, as I lunched at the Costco food court, I approached the counter and asked for the usual:

"A slice of combo and a soda, thanks."

The woman with the neat hairnet and disgruntled expression smirked just enough to let me know she was onto me. She took my money, gave me my food, and then, as if struck by inspiration, placed a handful of napkins and a fork in front of me.

After countless lunches at the Costco on 5300 South, I had yet to suspect that my usual habit of picking off toppings with my fingers and discarding the marinara-soaked bread had been noticed. And yet here was this women, handing me utensils and nodding encouragingly, as if to say, "Go ahead, sweetheart. Try your hand at civilization."

Now, I adore Costco. It's like a little piece of heaven packaged in concrete and complete with snacks. But it's not exactly tea at Bergdorf's now, is it? Upon the receipt of this blatant scorn, I pulled out the only weapon left to my disposal:

"Thank you, Ma'am. May I have that to go?"

I've grown accustomed to my family, close friends, even the occasional date giving me a sardonic stare and saying, "Hey, psycho. Just eat your food," but to be callously judged by the very wholesale warehouse to which I had pledged my undying devotion? Well, I can't lie. It stung a bit.

And so I sat in my car, each globby, breadless hunk of melted cheese a reminder of my prior rebuke, questioning the very essence of my habitual picking.

And in one final act of embittered rebellion, I tossed my crusts out the window.