Lately, I chew gum on my subway home. I believe/hope this is mainly a sign of stress. (See e.g. post “From Rat Race to Rat Rut” about the increased formation of repetitive habits under pressure.)
It is also probably a sign of hunger. Prices and choices in midtown Manhattan lead to frequently skipped lunches. Even custom-made salads begin to taste like vinaigretted plastic (plus chickpeas) with enough repetition. (Although, frankly, this dullness in the lunch area may be another sign of stress, i.e. the shrinking of that part of my brain devoted to executive decision-making, or, in other words, my work-induced inability to risk blue cheese.)
On the one hand, the chewing is horrible: it looks completely dumb and makes my jaw ache. And the taste (like the wonder of many new-found delights) soon dissipates no matter how much I stuff in.
On the other hand, it also feels kind of good. As I chew (rapidly and with some determination), my wait on the humid, griddle-like platform seems somehow more under control. My chewing may not make the train come faster, but at least it makes me feel more purposeful. Or at least it makes my mouth feel purposeful. Purposeful and silent. (A benefit, perhaps, if you consider gum chewing preferable to babbling.)
The problem is that, while I have an instinctual distrust of babbling, I was actually trained to hate gum chewing. This training, however, seems to allow me to chew with great heartiness. Because, given the voices in my head, I simply can’t see myself as a gum chewer. No matter how many sticks (that is, squares) I jam in. (At least three or four at once)
I also know I’d never chew gum because of my paranoia of whatever makes it sweet. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to keep (i) sugar away from teeth and (ii) fake sugar away from my internal organs.
(Chomp chomp.)
I’m so confident in my non-gum chewing, in fact, that lately I buy a new pack almost every other day.
Even though it’s the kind of thing I never touch.
ManicDDaily 
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