My Chiquita Banana Sticker Obsession

chiquita-banana-2Confession is a catharsis for the soul, and I am relieved to drop the burden of keeping this habit secret. Don’t judge me harshly; it could easily happen to you.  Read on and learn.

My fall into the well of horrors began sometime in the 1980s. A friend working in the cubicle across the aisle asked me to save Chiquita banana stickers for one of his children because their school would get a football if they gathered enough. Easy request for me because I eat lots of bananas, almost all Chiquitas and only a few Doles, and each has a sticker.

The school collection eventually ended, but the habit has had me by the throat ever since. I cannot throw away a banana peel without first removing the sticker. What do I do with all of them? I stick them in hidden places: under a desktop, on the back of a drawer, on the ceiling by a light fixture.  They are my marks, proving I was there, like a a tomcat spraying his territory, like writing “Kilroy was here.”

Or perhaps I am subconsciously in love with Chiquita Banana.  Sure, she has a fat neck, but her skin is so, so smooth. And dancing.  Always dancing in those tiny heels.

Do the math. Four bananas a week for about 40 years—that’s a lot of stickers spread throughout the environment. When I discover an old lamp stored away in the attic, I turn it over and find a banana sticker. When I repaint the bathroom door, I find a sticker on the top edge. When I clean pieces of broken M&Ms from my desk drawer, I find a sticker on the back.  All places where I had been before.

Can you find one in Longwood Gardens?  Maybe you can, maybe you can’t, but nothing is sacred to a sticker addict. (They peel off easily, anyway.)

When they close the lid on my coffin, leave any stickers you may find on it.  I want to take them with me.  Maybe I’ll sneak one on the Pearly Gates.  If you see one as you pass through, you’ll know I’m already there.

The building where I first worked in Wilmington was recently torn down.  All I could think of was of the several Chiquita banana stickers somewhere in that pile of rubble.  They would be on the ceiling tile grids, right above my old cubicle.

I expect in 5,000 years or so, an object with one of the banana stickers will turn up in a museum somewhere, and experts will debate the significance of the topless female banana icon with a fruit hat, dancing and shaking maracas, who should never be placed in a refrigerator.  I kid you not.

I’m Chiquita banana, and I’ve come to say, you have to love me in a certain way . . .

Oo, oo, I will, I will!  However you like it, baby.

About Roger Walck

My reasons for writing this blog are spelled out in the posting of 10/1/2012, Montaigne's Essays. They are probably not what you think.
This entry was posted in History, Popular culture and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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