Panera's Box

I’m sorry Panera but I can’t eat your bread anymore. It has nothing to do with your fantastic taste or your great half-sandwich/half-salad deal. No, I wish it were that easy. It’s a psycho-logical thing. Yes, most certainly the logic of a psycho, a madman if you will, one who can’t control his brain from triggering a nauseous feeling upon the thought of entering your domain.

You see, after my treatments my Mom and I and those who sacrificed their day to stay with me, came to you to indulge in your goodness. My Mom’s a big fan as was I when it all began. For weeks, just the comfort of being in your chair masked the spins my stomach was having from the chemicals pumping their way through my veins. As time went on I had to disappoint my Mom and her devoted love affair with you because not even your friendly service or freshly baked bread could help take away the restlessness by which my body was reacting. Home was where I needed to be.

Now, like Pavlov’s dog, the thought of entering you again provokes obnoxious feelings I need not wish to reacquaint myself with. I realize it’s nothing you’ve done, but alas, it’s the way it has to be. Don’t feel bad you’re not the only one. Zest can’t be used either but he doesn’t know it yet. So as for now, I thank you for your Asian salad, your black bean soup, and the variety of your sandwiches. Maybe one day we'll see each other again. Until then, may your buns always be firm.