Food

Jesus. What COULDN'T I say about food? Friend. Comfort. Elixir. Enemy. Shame. Discomfort.

My inclination is to go dark with the topic, to explore a wound that never really heals.

I don't want to go dark. Not tonight. It's too late, I'm too tired, and I'm too tired of telling a story that started at least 32 years ago.

In its place, a fun story.

Earlier today, I called a restaurant to order delivery. It's a bar food kind of place. Burritos, fries, cold bottles of Diet Coke.

The guy who took my order -- let's call him Fred -- is normally just a driver. He likes me. I know this because I've never been called sweetheart and baby so many times in one conversation as I do when I talk to him. Flattery is nice. We'll go with it.

Fred used to drive for a pizza company in the area. He left that job, he once explained on my porch, because it didn't pay well, something something about poor management, et cetera. He seemed pretty stoked to find out I was a customer of his new employer.

I don't have a lot of patience for cooking and basically dread going to the store, so yeah, the delivery guys (and very occasional girls) know me well.

On the phone, Fred flew through the process of taking my order. A side of this, a ramekin of that, hold the this, charge it to XYZ card.

"I'm gonna tell you 35-45 minutes for delivery, sweetheart... but you know I'm faster than that."

I know what he means and I also know that I no longer sleep with boys, but my first thought is, "That's not exactly what a girl likes to hear."