Let’s face it: this country is divided.
Democrats and Republicans bicker back and forth; liberals and conservatives argue endlessly; the left and the right could not be further apart — I could go on. Which is to say that I know more synonyms for progressives and the Grand Old Party.
But this is the heart of the matter: we must find ways to come together. Even if it means commiserating with those who we once believed were our enemies. That is why, after much consideration, I have resolved to broker peace talks with the honeydew wedge that comes with fruit arrangements sometimes.
Now, it’s no secret that my relationship with the honeydew wedge has been strained, historically speaking. Some divisive statements have been attributed to me on this subject — including that the honeydew wedge is “not a real fruit,” “the most profound ethical lapse of the Edible Arrangements corporate machine,” or else “the absence of flavor manifested in the form of a soggy rectangle.”
But we must leave those days behind us. We have enough contention as it is without me “stirring the pot.” Or — to use an idiom I would never invoke today — “sifting through the fruit plate searching for a half-decent respite from the deluge of banality that is the wretched honeydew wedge.”
There is simply no room in our explosive modern discourse for me to make inflammatory comments indicating that a honeydew wedge is just a watermelon slice with its soul exorcised. In this day and age, it would be irresponsible for me to peddle conspiracy theories, like that the honeydew wedge was God’s actual punishment for Adam and Eve consuming the forbidden fruit.
During a less pivotal moment in our history, I may have posed tendentious inquiries like “what’s the difference between eating a honeydew wedge and licking the dew off the grass in your front lawn?” In a simpler time, I would have then responded to my own question with a pithy quip, such as “about 30 bucks!” Of course, now that I have begun the healing process, such repartee would be unconscionable.
I will meet with the honeydew wedge face-to-slab, and I intend to do so on its own territory. We could convene at a continental breakfast, or a gallery opening, or a multilevel marketing presentation. It is up to Mr. Wedge.
Some may argue that to seek concord with the honeydew wedge would be tantamount to surrender. I must respectfully disagree. I believe in the value of compromise; we can always find common ground, even with those we have heretofore referred to as “the La Croix of gourd cross-sections.”
Whatever the result of the Honeydew Summit, the simple fact that a discussion has been broached is a victory unto itself. When all is said and done, the honeydew wedge and I will leave the well-decorated negotiation table confident that we made a genuine effort. Not unlike the genuine effort that some claim to be making when they give their loved ones a pile of fruit as a gift.
These are the sorts of difficult allyships we must forge in order to survive an era of cultural rancor. And who knows? Under the right circumstances, I may come not only to accept the honeydew wedge — but embrace it. In all its slimy, translucent, supplementary glory.
Cantaloupe, however, still sucks.