I just almost died as a result of my forgetfulness. (I knew it was going to catch up with me some day.) Allow me to explain:
This morning, I left the house all the necessary ingredients for my lunch for the next three days: Spinach, Strawberries, Pecans, and I even remembered to bring a bowl. When I have these things, I just bring them all in their original containers and make a quick salad for lunch. It’s tasty and fast and means that I don’t have to think about packing a lunch in the morning. In short, it is awesome.
But, we all know that no salad is truly awesome without some kind of a dressing, and dressing, my friends, is exactly what I left in the door of the fridge at the house. I forgot the salad dressing.
I stewed over my lunch options all morning.
Have some money converted to cafeteria approved currency and eat sushi? Tempting, but would require spending more money than I want to spend, and several different flights of stairs in several different buildings. (Usually that’s not an issue, but I wore shoes today that don’t have the rubber tip on the heel, and I’ve about busted THIRTEEN times since this day started just walking around the office. I’m going to go ahead and avoid stairs.)
I could have just gone over to the cafeteria and stolen some dressing, but that would require being moderately covert, and that I am not. See: the shoes. Also, see: how the heck would I have transported it? Also, do they even have raspberry vinaigrette dressing? Because that’s crucial. Can’t be eating this salad with any old ‘Italian’ dressing.
Drive all the way home, spending my entire 30 minute lunch break walking to the car, getting home, getting the dressing, driving back, and then walking back to the office? And it’s kinda hot outside? Pass.
That’s when I decided to go to a bonafide restaurant and get a chicken taco and a bowl of rice for $3.00, and move on. I’ll bring the dressing tomorrow, you know? That’ll work perfectly.
And it did work perfectly. Worked while I was walking, ordering and sitting down. But when I took my second bite of chicken taco deliciousness, I looked up to see none other than The Grim Reaper. He was all, “I’m going to kill you with the food in this world you love the most. And not with your basic heart attack, either. Death by Taco Shell.”
I was all, “crap.”
When I was growing up, my family and I went to Braum’s quite often. We’d all line up to get our Rocky Roads or our Orange Sherbets (depending on the life stage, of course) right in front of a sign that instructed restaurant bystanders how to help someone in case of an emergency. It said things like, “if you are choking, please hold your hands to your neck like so…” and, “if you see someone holding their hands to their necks like so, please FLIPPIN’ DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.”
As I was sitting there, gasping for breath through a hard taco shell, my brain short circuted between two thoughts: 1.) I wish they had one of those signs. I could point to it, or at least go stand by it, so perhaps someone would notice that I am currently CHOKING TO DEATH. and 2.) Wish I’d have remembered that damn dressing.