I like to consider myself a pretty worldly twenty-something year old.
This one time, I built houses in Guatemala and yeah, I feel like because of that I’m allowed to dub myself experienced in the ways of the earth. I guess also because I grew up with three brothers — but that’s another story.
I have done lots of things in my limited years here on this planet. I’ve purchased well over 50 plane tickets and ridden public transportation systems everywhere from Kamloops to Paris. I have gotten lost on public transportation systems everywhere from Kamloops to Paris. When I was five, I purposefully ate an ant — a red ant. I mean, seriously guys, I’m worldly.
But, of course, there are things I have never done. I have a list of them because I’m anal retentive, but also because it’s nice to keep track of my accomplishments. Even if that accomplishment is only to throw a pair of Chuck Taylors over a telephone wire.
Except I’ve never done that. It’s on there, but I’ve never done it.
There are other strange things I haven’t done, too. For example, never have I ever watched an entire episode of The Simpsons. I know, right? It’s bizarre. Also, I have never managed to memorize a single Beatles song. Which I’m pretty sure is blasphemy, but I can’t be certain of that.
I’m a preacher’s daughter, but I’ve never read the book of Exodus and — get this — never have I ever eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Actually, I need to correct myself. Never had I ever eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yesterday, I crossed that one off my bucket list (pun obviously intended).
First of all, it’s important to note I absolutely love fried chicken, okay? I don’t want you to think it’s because I’m some privileged vegan freak or anything. I’m not. Kill the chickens — kill all the chickens and give them to me with the skins on and battered and deep-fried. There is nothing not to like about that.
(Unless you’re an animal rights activist, in which case [gently] kill the chickens [humanely] — kill all the [grain fed, free-range] chickens [humanely] and give them to me with the skins on and battered and deep-fried.)
I simply did not grow up in a family where we ate fast food, and because of this, my go-to isn’t a bucket of chicken, it’s a Big Mac.
But there it stood — hovering over the highway like some sort of subliminally captivating neon sign that said “bar open” — and I knew I had to have it.
Oh, I wanted it in a bucket all right, and I didn’t care if my 5’4" frame should be ordering a family fun bucket for 12 people either. I got the damn bucket.
Popcorn chicken kernel after popcorn chicken kernel, I dunked those bad boys in gravy and honey and BBQ sauce and slammed them all.
(I mean really, is it even chicken at that point?)
It was at this moment my boyfriend asked if I could share. I mean, the obvious answer was no, but relationships are built upon something stupid called compromise or compassion or whatever and I felt like it was a necessary evil. We still had 300 kilometres to drive together, so I flung him a drumstick.
I sat cross-legged in the passenger seat surrounded by sauce containers and stripped chicken thighs while I licked my fingers feeling absolutely gleeful.
It wasn’t skydiving. It wasn’t an African safari. It wasn’t even making it all the way through The Exorcist without having a mental breakdown — but it was me, holding a bucket of chicken over folded legs, experiencing something amazing for the first time.
And it only cost my boyfriend thirty bucks.
— Andria is a twenty-something blogger living in Kamloops with her 100 pairs of heels and 200 paperback Penguin Classics.