Why I Won't Eat Ham

I’m constantly questioned about why I refuse to eat ham. I was telling the story to someone the other night for the umpteenth time and it finally dawned on me that this story was mildly entertaining and that I should probably write it down and share with the world so I don’t have to field this question again, and again, and … again.

Once upon a time, when I was an eight-year-old little girl, my mom joined a gym. (that’s not the funny part) My mom had just had Baylee, my sister, and decided that she needed to lose some weight (I don’t know why she would think that, she has always had a remarkable figure…hey, Mom, wanna go shopping tomorrow?)

Anyway, this particular gym had a daycare where pesky children were placed so their guardians didn’t have to worry about their children getting their fingers caught in the treadmill or their bodies crunched under the stair master.

So, of course, 8-year-old Ashlee and 1-year-old shrimp-sized Baylee were placed in this huge room with sherbet green walls adorned with awful recreations of acrylic- painted Disney characters.

I’ve always been sort of…peculiar about certain things. So naturally, I found that place absolutely vomit-provokingly disgusting and didn’t want any part of “snack time” or “duck-duck-goose.” As soon as my mom would drop us off, I’d grab my sister and an empty chair and drag it over to the corner where I would sit, sister in my lap, the entire time my mom worked out. Sometimes, on a good day, there was a 13-inch TV playing a movie, but only if we were lucky.

Let me just take a second to emphasize how ironic it is that I was so protective over Baylee. When my parents first informed me that I would be getting a new sister, the first thing I did was cry. The second thing I did was make a 5-page list of “Things I Won’t Share With the New Baby.” (I am not exaggerating). The third thing I did was milk the situation for all it was worth, dragging my mom to KB toys and DZ Discovery Zone any chance I got. So the fact that I actually ended up liking her just blows my mind. Anyway, back to the story…

One morning, after my mom had dropped us off, Baylee and I were sitting in our usual spot in the corner watching Tarzan, when out of the corner of my eye, I spot this little fellow with a buzz cut (I hate buzz cuts) skipping over to us. I’m so distracted by his buzz cut and light-up shoes that I am completely oblivious to the fact that he has partially chewed food spilling out of his mouth.

The next thing I know, the snotty-nosed brat with the buzz flings an unidentifiable, light pink substance soaring in mine and Baylee’s direction. Without my cat-like reflexes, it would have landed on Baylee, coating her typical 1-year-old vulnerable immune system with germs.

I immediately pitch a fit, something that I have been good at for years. My screaming sends the day care attendant flying over to my corner who identifies the unidentifiable chewed-up substance as slice of ham, grabs the boy by the hand, (brave lady, or maybe just stupid) and leads him over to a sink just in time for him to get out of the way of the miniature keyboard I sent flying towards his buzzed-cut beady little head.

My mom appears at the window just in time. On our way home, in our dark green Jeep, my sister tucked safely in her car seat, Mom and I come to the agreement that gym daycares will no long be in my future. And neither will ham.

The end.






The victims, Baylee and Ashlee, almost 13 years after the ham incident. Ashlee continues to live in a ham-free environment except when her dad decides to buy it. Even then, he's required to keep it in the fridge drawer under the lettuce.