I have this bad habit, no it’s
really a compulsion, to eat French toast at a local diner during inconvenient
hours whenever I feel stressed or excited or honestly any emotion or hormone
that I can blame as an excuse to eat these delicious slices of sweet, sweet
heaven. I have even used the excuse, “Oh my god, I am alive today! I should
celebrate and eat French toast.” I am not sure why for the past year I have
been obsessed with this blissfully divine carb-fest and have often times
realized that if society considered it a drug, I would be in and out of rehab
right now.
Yesterday I was heading back to my
house after a long trip to San Diego with one of my friends, a Vietnamese
social worker who is addicted to soup and coffee. I noticed that I was not
hungry but there was the slight possibility that at some point in the next week
my blood sugar might drop. My conclusion? Eat food now to prevent it from
happening at that moment. After all an ounce of prevent is better than a pound
of cure, right? I am a firm believer in taking care of my body and what it
needs in order to delay my death for as long as possible. Turning to my friend
I looked at her and in my typical slightly monotone voice and declared, “I want
food.”
Smiling, she looked at me out of
the corner of her eye and replied enthusiastically, “French toast?” As if it
was even a question. HA! Of course I want French toast you fool! French Toast
is my life support and today is my unbirthday! So naturally we head over to my
favorite local diner to celebrate this festive occasion that only happens 364
days a year.
Entering
in the portal of my favorite diner, I am once again greeted by the familiar
smell of feet and stale air freshener. Breathe deeply my friend, breathe in
deep the aroma of Olympia. As we are seated in the booth, I turn to my friend
and inform her that I need to go to the bathroom and to please order my food for
me. The good thing about knowing someone who is both a clinical social worker
and who is considered a friend, is that she makes the easiest victim to be my
diner-French-toast-addicted superhero side-kick. I have dragged her to so many
diners to eat French toast that she knows exactly what I will be eating at
which location so I knew my order would be in good hands.
Walking
to the bathroom was an adventure in of itself. For some reason the late night
crowd here is always the strangest and I noticed an obese elderly man with a
long white beard who reminded me of Santa in summer clothes gave me a creepy
stare down. Now normally people looking at me like I have a horn growing out of
my head doesn’t bother me and I tend to ignore it but the facial expression of
this off-season Santa reminded me of a menopausal woman that I have seen on an
episode of “Snapped.” So of course since he is staring at me, I have to return
the favor and stare back in an attempt to show that I am being harmonious with
my environment; as the saying goes, “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
Entering
into the bathroom was an experience that I will never forget. As soon as I
stepped through the doorway into the two-stall bathroom, I am greeted by a
plump elderly woman squatting over a toilet with no pants on, clearly
displaying her untamed lady bits. Completely unfazed by my presence, she begins
to have a conversation with me and warns me not to go into the other stall
because someone apparently left a mess. Glancing over to the other stall I am
shocked and slightly impressed that whoever used the bathroom last had such bad
aim that they peed on the floor in addition to the toilet, yet somehow didn’t
get a droplet on the actual seat. I must admit that takes skill and true
artistry. I thank her warning and contemplated whether or not I should just
walk out of the bathroom, but my bladder demanded to be emptied and the elderly
woman was still talking to me while peeing which made things extra awkward, at
least for me. My mother always taught me to not interrupt, look people in the
eyes and respect my elders, but in no way did she prepare me for this life
experience and the last thing that I wanted to do was look at this half-naked
woman in the eye while she peed. The only thing I could think of doing was
turning around and facing the door as this elderly lady rambled on about toilet
paper and other details of this bathroom. Finally, the flush of relief came and
as soon as she exited the bathroom stall, I rushed in and shut the door.
This is
one thing that I love about going to diners late at night. You never know what
you will find or who you will meet. It is all an adventure and part of the rich
tapestry of life.
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