Fine, Chiquita. Fine.

The other day I ate a banana for the first time in 12 years.

I pause for dramatic effect.

Twelve. Years.

The Truth: I have spent the last twelve years (Alright, if I'm being honest: 22 years, although I technically can't vouch for those first 3 or 4, as I don't remember them. Its just that twelve years ago, at the age of 10, my father couldn't stand the dramatic tears and gagging anymore and finally gave up trying to make me consume them. Thusly I didn't eat one for the next 12 years.) abhorring bananas with every fiber of my being. The smell makes me nauseous. The sound of someone contentedly munching on one (aka: squelching) near to me makes me gag. The thought of the sound of someone contentedly squelching one near to me makes me gag. I can't speak to the how I react to the taste of one, as I hadn't had one in twelve years and the memory had thankfully faded away. That scene in Honey I Shrunk The Kids where the girl passes out because she has a weird potassium deficiency so they literally stuff one into her slack jaw and she miraculously revives makes me...excuse me... Also that game they play in youth groups where they put panty hose over some wretched kid's face and make someone else smash the banana through it...I can't even go there...

The Whole Truth: All of these emotions and memories and experiences led to twelve years of instances similar to the time that kid mashed banana in my hair at the beach and I was actually sick. On him. Or the time some friends of mine thought it would be funny to chase me with a banana peel and I ended up shivering and shoeless on the cold front porch rather than suffer the presence of what is, in my opinion, the most revolting joke Nature ever played on us. Or that time we were at the movies sharing a bag of jelly beans and I accidentally ate a banana flavored one because it was dark and I innocently assumed that would just be too cruel of a joke for the gods to play on me. Or that time I unknowingly took a sip of my sister's banana-laden smoothie and very nearly spluttered it all over her face. Or the time everyone at dinner was asking me...you know what, no. I refuse to live through that one again (if you were there, you'll doubtless remember well enough on your own).

Nothing But the Truth: The other day I was wanning downtown (walk-running, duh) and I thought to myself, "Hmm, I'm hungry, what shall I have for lunch when I get home. I mean besides apples and whole grain cheddar goldfish. Huh, a banana sounds good maybe I'll ha-WAIT, WHAT!? What am I thinking? Why did I, oh my gosh, it really does sound good what is, what do I, how did I, how do I, what should I, who do I, whaaaa!?" And then my train of thought deteriorated into something as mushy as a banana...oh sick. But then I got home and told my roommate what crazy thing had happened. The second I told her, her eyes lit up. Really though, there was a bit of a maniacal glimmer to them as she said, "Well I have a banana." Silence. Deep breath. I wanted it.

So help me God: I ate the banana. Well okay, I ate the sliced up sections of banana my roommate put on a plate with a fork about two feet away from me. I picked up the fork. I gingerly stabbed a sliver. I inspected it with the utmost of skepticism. I did not smell it. I closed my eyes. I ate it. I liked it. I ate the whole banana. The only reasonable explanations I can come up with involve chemical imbalances and scenarios in which my body has been possessed by the black smoke funnel monster from Lost - who apparently loves bananas. Seriously, nothing else could explain the phenomenon.

Twenty minutes later I was cleaning up and was greeted by the splayed out, splotchy, sick nasty banana peel on the top layer of our trash can, and my gag reflex immediately kicked into gear. So apparently it was the peel, all of these years. Sorry for the theatrics dad, but if you want me to eat them you're going to have to peel and slice them like I'm still 6.