Everyone is all up in my face about New Year’s resolutions, especially my lady friend. “Rob, you need a resolution! You need to be a better person!” she says. I honestly can’t think of much that can make me any better than I already am. I’m in pretty good shape. (I could totally beat up this one guy Justin Breithaupt. You hear that Justin!? I’m comin’ for ya!) I have a healthy diet of corn dogs, eggs and cheese. Hell, I’ve even started reading again in the last year or so. If you’ve never read Beezus and Ramona, I highly recommend it.
I know that it’s a little late to be talking about this stuff. It’s the start of February and normally, by this point in the year, everyone has made their resolutions, tried burning off those 37 pounds gained over the holidays (approximately 12 pounds attributed to liquid carbs) and then given up after fainting several steps into a planned mile-long run. Well, as I’ve stated, I couldn’t think of anything that could add to how amazing I really am. Stop swearing? No thanks. Stop making fun of Dashboard Confessional fans? Forget about it. Plant a tree? I’d sooner tear one down out of spite. No, I thought I was doing just fine … but that was before Subway.
It started innocently enough when a friend and I were barraged by the rat-a-tat-tat of hunger bullets. We needed some grub … and fast. My pizza port was salivating like nobody’s business. We made our way to the Subway eatery located in DeMatt, one of my favorite places to grab a bite on campus. Standing in line, I was struck by the realization that, for at least two years, I had never eaten a Subway sandwich other than the Subway melt. Ham, turkey, bacon, Swiss cheese, lettuce, cucumber, banana peppers, and Chipotle Southwest Sauce on toasted cheese bread. That was it. For two long years. It may have been longer. I can’t remember a pre-melt era. It’s all pretty hazy. Suffice it to say that the Subway Melt has haunted my dreams for a long, long time. It’s delicious. It’s a sandwich fit for Kong, the lord of great apes.
So, here I was in line, for the first time pondering whether or not to stick with my usual order. Would ordering anything else be like cheating on a lover, a lover with just the right amount of spice balanced by the cool sensation of crisp cucumbers? Would I be overcome with pings and pangs of chipotle-covered guilt? Would I be able to sleep at night knowing that there were four slices of bacon waiting, just waiting, to be laid next to their brothers known as ham and turkey? Maybe, most importantly, would anything but the melt do a number on my bowels?
On the other hand, would a new choice be a welcome change? I loved the Subway Melt, but maybe my real favorite was still out there somewhere, undiscovered, hidden away in a garlic-parmesan bun. Maybe it was covered in onions and tomatoes and low-cal ranch dressing and I just couldn’t see it. It was very frustrating, confusing. I called out, “Why is this happening to me!? Why am I made to suffer so!?” I dropped to my knees and put my face in my hands and, for the first time since I was told, “I’m sorry, sir. Little Man is sold out.” I cried. Emotions I had never felt before swept over me.
In my time of need, I felt a gentle hand touch my shoulder. Looking up, I saw my friend’s kind face. “Dude, just try the Seafood Sensation,” he said, “I heard it’s all right.” I smiled, and, for the first time in 20 or 30 seconds, I felt like everything would be okay. There was a crab-flavored light at the end of the tunnel. I confidently put in my order (on wheat bread!), got my sub and plowed in.
To be frank, it was a pretty nasty sandwich. I won’t lie. Tasted like they tried to inject fish and squid flavors into pudding and then slapped it on a moldy baguette. And I resolved to never try anything new again.
Rob Gartland is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences.
