I have a theory. It would be easier for most people to admit to being a werewolf than to having eaten McDonald's for dinner. I base this theory on extensive research in my car tonight eating dinner cloaked in a fog of shame. Also in a much less metaphoric, literal fog outside the car. But mostly the shame fog.
It was probably the fog that made me feel like I was doing something terribly wrong, combined with the fact that I was doing something bad. So I parked over in the Sad Loser section of the parking lot. (If you're wondering, it's over by the trees. Because trees don't judge. Or talk.)
Appropriate parking is Step One in eating McDonald's for dinner in your car. The next step is to straw your drink and eat some french fries. I don't know how McDonald's makes their fries so good, and I probably don't want to know, either. But I do know that they are so good, eating a handful or three before chowing down on your sandwich of choice is so good it's like foreplay.
Then you look around, sending out "don't park next to me -- I will bite you" vibes to all the cars that go by. Then you unwrap the sandwich, your pupils dilate, your eyes glaze over, and you are temporarily insane until you've finished. A lapse in memory is not uncommon. When you're done, all that's left is a wrapper, maybe some lettuce carnage, and a smear of condiment down one side of your mouth. And the sinful, intoxicating smell on your hands that no soap can remove. Only time erases a Big Mac.
As I shoved the empty cup into the bag of trash I later smuggled into my office building like a ticking bomb, I wondered if being a werewolf would be not only easier to admit, but more socially acceptable.
No one would ask questions if every night I disappeared, only to reappear a half-hour later, hair matted, clothes disheveled, fingernails caked in grime, bits of fur between my teeth. Granted, that's mostly because no one would notice, but really, how do you begin that conversation? You'd just talk around it, like weight gain and bruises.
Only when I began giving out lucky rabbit's feet for every gift occasion AND as contributions to pot luck dinners would someone consider saying something. Then they'd decide against it, figuring ritualistic bunny slaughter is some weird Scandinavian tradition. You can do anything you want as long as you say it's a tradition vaguely related to your lineage. Sweden has an entire holiday celebrated by putting lit candles on your head. (Or, more specifically, the oldest daughter, which I am in my family.) If I showed up to work on December 13th with candles on my head, it would have been a charming cross-cultural experience. If I put candles on my head on December 14th, though, it'd be "lock her the fuck up."
Similarly, if I showed up at work with Big Mac sauce on my face, it'd be much less socially acceptable than if I walked in holding the severed head of a deer. Especially because around here, those are up on 3 out of 4 walls.