I didn’t MEAN to steal breakfast, but I did.
We had a thing at work where, if you brought in cans of food for the less fortunate, you got a free breakfast that they’d ordered in from somewhere. But, see, we had all these snow days and I literally didn’t leave my house for four days, see.
Not to mention you all know how I am.
So when I got to work Wednesday, of course I forgot to bring Unfortunate Cans. Of course I did.
But then everyone kept sallying forth all morning with their breakfast plates, plates with delicious breakfast food on it, plates they deserved because they didn’t forget to bring cans. I grabbed a packet of my depressing high-fiber oatmeal® and headed to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to have the breakfast?” my boss’s boss, fmr., asked me.
I told him I forgot to bring cans.
“Oh, I brought cans enough for both of us,” he said. “Go on down there.”
I mean, I know Gallant wouldn’t have gone on down there, but whoever said I was Gallant?
So I brazenly walked canless into the donate-your-cans room, and took me some french toast, and I realize God pursed his lips, okay? I know. I felt it.
I never think Ima like french toast until I HAVE french toast and mother of god is it delicious.
The unfortunate would also like french toast.–God
At 11:00, I had a doctor’s appointment, which is in a very fancy building with two-story-tall ceilings. I always feel like I’m going to a soap opera doctor, although never once has my doctor du jour taken me into her office to discuss my condition from behind her desk while I have on a suit jacket and skirt.
Anyway, after my appointment, I was leaving the doctor’s office and at the same time, across the fancy hall, a very hot age-appropriate man was leaving the offices of Erectile & Dysfunction or whatever. I actually have no idea what sort of old-guy-I-could-actually-date office he was leaving.
The Matlock Fan Club headquarters.
P. Pants & Co.
The FDR Lap Blanket Boutique.
The Old Spice outlet.
The point is, we exchanged glances. I smiled at him, and then he paused and smiled at me.
“I am so appealing,” I smugged, as I sauntered down the stairs. I mean, is there no end to my charisma?
When I told this story to my mother, it was at this point that she asked, “What did you do wrong?”
I’ll tell you what I did wrong.
When I got to my car and strapped m’seat belt on, I noticed I had
down my shirt, so much syrup that the top and the bottom of my shirt had actually gathered together, to form a little syrup pucker. We gather together to hear the lord’s disapproval.
There was an actual FOLD of syrup gluing my shirt together.
I had a syrup strip going all the way down one pant leg. A whole stripe, like I was in a ragtime band or something.
So unless that man has some kind of Aunt Jemima fetish, I think I’ve blown that one.