One morning, I sat alone, as is my preference, with a good read (an actual bonafide book and not an ebook on my iPhone so it should’ve been clear I was BUSY) and a package of chocolate pop-tarts.
That should tell you all you need to know about me. I love to read, eat chocolate and generally be left to my own devices. It’s not a bad gig if one can actually get it, amiright?
Anyhoo, the door swung open and in walked 👹who proceeded to ogle my package of nutritionally bankrupt breakfast offerings.
I could already tell by 👹’s facial expressions that my moment of solitude was about to come to an ignominious end as every introvert on the planet KNOWS the look. Someone is about to speak. 🙄
“Oh, chocolate pop-tarts”, 👹 intoned in the same voice one might use while working as a 1-900 operator or starring in a porno.
Not that I’d know personally. I’m just guessing here.
Shit, why can’t I just eat in peace? Apparently, I’d aggravated Karma and she didn’t want me to be one with my trashy romance novel and my equally craptastic breakfast of calories and caffeine.
I offered up what could only have been a pained, constipated smile and said nothing.
I’m told I’m good at doing this and the ones of weaker constitution usually slink off in search of easier prey.
Not this one.
“Oh, I haven’t had one of those in agesssss”, 👹 continued, “but do you know how many calories are in them?”
For the record, I don’t care. At least it wasn’t one of those nasty Jolly Rancher or coffee flavored ones. Yes, that’s a thing now. Ugh.
Now, I’m guessing 👹 is one of those that dips the tines of the fork in the salad dressing before plunging it into a bowl of greens the size of Cincinnati and grins all the while like a jackass eating cactus. These people claim to be happy eating rabbit food drizzled with a whiff of organic unicorn farts and a sprinkling of good wishes and I am equally happy for them to do so but, dammit kindly leave my plate alone!
I watch, hapless, as 👹 drew a deep breath and…here it goes.
Sweet sister Sadie, cover my mouth and remind me with visuals of the eternal flames of hell what awaits me if I lose it.
“Ugh, this new diet is killing me and I’m soooo hungry. I’d kill for a Pop-tart!”
I gave a bit of side-eye to see if the brandishment of weaponry was in my future, but no, it appeared I was to be talked to death.
Someone hold me.
What followed can only be described as verbal dysentery. It certainly wasn’t a conversation because I wasn’t talking. I had a book…wasn’t that my antidote to talking?
In brief, I got to hear about the diet, the strict adherence to the diet, how much work went into preparing the dishes for the diet (not to mention the cost of the diet), the spouse’s lackadaisical adherence to the diet, that evening’s plans (concert) and where they intended to eat (steakhouse) …and how the diet fit into all of it.
Clearly, I was off my game. I felt the panic seeping into my pores. I’d lost my touch. My trademark “my give a damn’s busted” visage had fled. In my 15 minutes of need, I’d been abandoned by my snark, that fickle wench.
I had nothing. Even my constipated smile had further dried up and turned into a full blown impaction.
Listen, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy you’re starving yourself into abject misery. I truly am. I mean, who WOULDN’T think that 800 calories a day was sufficient? If it makes you flatter, fitter, healthier, quieter, I am all for it like Hugh Hefner is for half-naked chicks in bunny suits. I just don’t want to hear about it! And neither does anyone else!
Here, have a Pop-tart.