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Show Lunch-mouth special Lurking vending machines beseige student go. Most people have their multiplication multi-plication tables memorized, I have the calorie value of every edible entity down to a tea, hot chocolate, rolls, Danish pastries whoops! .There I go again! You've undoubtedly heard of the self-torture our Puritan ancestors liked to put themselves through about all those fun recreational past times dare I mention them? I used to believe they were demented dement-ed patsies until I realized that in a sadistical way, their ideological hang-ups have been passed down to me. Nary a bite of food crosess my lips without my mental adding machine clicking up the additional increase. You see, I have this psychological psychologi-cal fear of becoming fat. Urk! I hate the word. Ever since I was wee, small, yet old enough to see those fat mamas in housecoats and curlers cur-lers tramping through the American supermarket, I have vowed to never let myself dissolve into a middle-aged-suburban-blimp. And the formula I have strickened myself to is watching my weight. The ironical problem behind this whole dilemma, however, is my ever-present desire to eat. Eat anything. any-thing. I pretend that I'm a connoisseur connois-seur of world cuisine. And if I'm not busily preoccupied, my first thoughts are always drifting toward the kitchen. As September slowly slipped by I was becoming frantic over my summer feed-in I fondled the prospects of the future in my brain and heart. My stomach wouldn't have anything to do with it. I looked upon the days of school as my salvation. Why, I told myself, there won't be any opportunity to eat on that huge, enormous, gigantic campus. cam-pus. And I'm going to be so involved in-volved and busy and encroached with schoolish chores that I won't even think of food. So, on the first day of classets, as I tripped merrily into Orson Spencer Hall, my hopes were high and my suspesions non-existant. And then it happened. I saw them, standing before me, beckoning like some foul, misplaced Arab. Bright red Coke machines, silver candy cases in rows ice-cream, cookies, oranges. A complete feast before mv eves. And I wilted in the door- By AMY WADSWORTH Chronicle Staff Even though I knew that I would be faced by many thrilling and frightening experiences as a freshman, fresh-man, I had not prepared myself for one of the greatest challenges life: facing the vending machines at the University. Down every hallway, lurking behind be-hind each corner, boldly standing forth in some grand entrance way I have been literally beseiged by vending machines since the first day of school. Challenge? Excitement? Apprehension? Appre-hension? Why in the name of high school graduates, should I be so overcome with emotion at the sight of a vending machine? The main and most prominent reason is basically bas-ically because I'm a lunch-mouth from the word EAT. Unfortunately, besides being an endless gorge, I'm a 100 percent believer in calorie cal-orie counting. Most people carry datebooks around, notepads, kleenexes. I carry a mini-calorie-counter, published pub-lished by some other tormented food-lover, and a specially small pad to add my daily eatings as I way, my strength and determination buckling beneath my belt. I don't quite remember how I escaped them that day. It's like a fog. My only recollection is sitting in the corner of my French room, panting and shaking. But by the time class was over, I had regained re-gained control of my senses again and with a heroic air of bravado, was ready to face the temptations of the halls once more. It was with luck that my next class found me in the Business Lecture. Not a vending vend-ing machine in sight! Thus, my confidence con-fidence had returned magnanimously magnani-mously as I felt the tinted and in spiring doors of the building. I had overcome. Nothing more could shake me. The sky was clear and radiant, promising new hope and a future of calorieless prospects. Little Lit-tle did I realize that my Waterloo was near at hand. My next class was in the basement of the Behavioral Be-havioral Science Building. I suppose you can guess what happened when I saw those rows of vending machines. Gleeming golden apples, Reece's Peanut Butter But-ter Cups, fresh cookies, chilling, frosted cans of Orange Crush. And they all faced me, daring me, provoking pro-voking me, convincing me! "I've almost given up since. Last Wednesday, I threw away my calorie-counter; my inner adding machine mac-hine blew a fuse a long time ago. I don't even try to pretend that I can stand up to them anymore. With resignation, I just go up to them, put in my quarter, pick up my change and pull off the wrapper. wrap-per. Bjt I haven't lost all hope, because be-cause I don't think my Puritanical ideals can forsake me totally. So perhaps, one week soon, I'll go out and buy me another calorie book, another pad of paper and set new resolutions. Perhaps I'll be able to return to that once existant state. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to say NO. But I try not to think about it too much . . . because I like to pretend. And, well, after all, tomorrow tomor-row is another day . . . Participation '72 is asking teachers to allow students to leave classes to come to the Candidates Fair. The fair will be held in the Union Wednesday Wednes-day from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. Candidates Can-didates running for all major state offices and most local offices will debate the issues, as well as representatives for the Presidential candidates. |