Imagine the options: Chicken Nuggets, Fries, Big Mac, Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Quarter Pounder, McChicken, Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, Sweet and Sour Sauce, Barbecue Sauce, Honey Mustard Sauce, Southwest Salad, Asian Salad, Bacon Ranch Salad, Egg McMuffin, McSkillet Burrito, Sausage McMuffin, Fruit n’ Yogurt Parfait, McFlurry. I’m lovin’ it.

I am not your typical Whitman College student. I don’t play Frisbee, I don’t own a pair of Chacos, I hate rock climbing, and I like McDonald’s. I love McDonald’s. For the past three and a half years I have been hiding this secret, clandestinely munching on Chicken Nuggets in the parking lot of the McDonald’s on Issacs, each dip into the Sweet and Sour sauce full of shame.

In high school it was no big deal. My friends and I would go to McDonald’s all the time, take it back to school, and eat it in plain view of the entire campus. Why, then, can I not bring myself to step onto Ankeny, red, white and gold bag in hand? Why the shame?

I tried to reveal my love of McDonald’s to a few other Whitties on a road trip and was met with bitter remarks such as “I didn’t know there were any Whitman students who like that place,” and “We could go there I guess, but I would only get water,” and lastly “I wouldn’t even get the water.” My face turned red and I hastily agreed to stop at Taco del Mar instead. I’ve read “Fast Food Nation,” I’ve scanned the articles on partially hyrdrogenated soybean oil, I’ve seen “Supersize Me,” I know there is no such thing as a nugget on a chicken, but I still love McDonald’s.

First off, I genuinely love the taste. I adore trans fats, so shoot me. But there is more to McDonald’s than taste. The Hamburglar for one is an inspired pun. And while Ronald McDonald is slightly disturbing, in the way all clowns are, the Hamburglar is quite lovable.

On top of that, I just love the globalization of McDonald’s. I now have come to expect that there would be McDonald’s in Italy, France or Chile. But should I find myself in Qatar, Aruba, Georgia, Slovakia or Saint Vincent and the Grenadines I can find some solace in knowing that Micky D’s is nearby.

That’s another thing, the nicknames, oh the nicknames. In the UK it is referred to as Macky D’s, McDo in France, Maccers in Ireland, Mackedonken in Sweden and Macarranis in Mexico. What a lovely, shape-shifting and versatile institution. It might use tumor-ridden beef or contribute to the obesity of America, but I think it is just great.

So now, I welcome your scorn. And if you see me in a green Ford Explorer, stuffing my face with fries, knock on my window and I’ll give you a greasy, oily, salty smile.