The Salad Struggle
How many times does the waitress have to come over and ask, “Have we decided yet?” before it’s okay to end the small talk and peruse the menu for your choice? What’s the courteous number? Two? Three? Honestly, I need to know, because it takes me awhile to decide what I want and I can’t completely relax or engage in conversation with someone sitting across from me until I know what food item I’ll be looking forward to during the next twenty minutes.
This is exactly why I don’t feel entirely guilty that in the middle of my friend telling me he suspected infidelity on the part of his girlfriend of 5 years, this dialogue was running through my head:
***
Bacon Cheeseburger: “Pick Me.”
Caesar Salad: “Me.”
Bacon Cheeseburger: “Seriously, you know it’s me. Quit wasting your time.”
Caesar Salad. “Just pick me already. Your friend needs you to listen!”
Burger: “You knooow? I come with those fresh-cut fries too?”
Salad: “You are supposed to be trimming up for vacation.”
Burger: “I taste so much better. Quit fooling yourself.”
Salad: “You won’t be stuffed later if you eat me.”
Burger: “You won’t be hungry later if you choose me.”
Salad: “You won’t feel like shit in an hour.”
Burger: “You won’t feel like a pussy in a few minutes.”
Salad: “You won’t have to run tonight.”
Burger: “It’s lettuce for shit’s sake. It’s for rabbits and Chinese appetizers!
Salad: “You’ll feel so responsible if you choose me.”
Burger: “You’ll be on top of the food chain with me, jackass.”
Salad: “ Think about that poor, sweet cow. How they treated it?”
Burger: “Your stomach called and said, “Don’t be a turd. Eat me if you have even one morsel of self-respect.”
Salad: “Your brain left a message and said, “This is good. This is healthy.”
Burger: “The Bitch Store called and said they sold out of their best item: You!”
***
“What are you getting?” I ask my friend, who’s on the verge of tears by this time. “Okay,” I tell the waitress with a smirk of conviction, “You know what? I’ll have the burger. But, wait, put it on a wheat bun,” satisfied that I’ve just solved the internal struggle with the perfect, healthy compromise.
And, two hours later in the office bathroom, half asleep, vowing to workout later and trying to remember what my friend was talking about at lunch, I picture that damn Caesar salad indignantly whispering, “Told you so.”
So, who else out there has dining dissonance?
