We are all familiar with how much I love my food. There’s no secrets on here: I love to eat, and I’m not ashamed of it. No judgement here.
I also have this problem with eating out too much. Like for my last birthday, my friend Haley introduced me to Moe’s Southwest Grill for the first time ever, and now I’m hooked. I have a real addiction for their John Coctostan Quesadillas. It’s a problem.
Anywho, my friend had invited me to brunch, but I turned her down because my mother (yes, the one from the horrid shopping experience, who I love dearly) wanted to take me to breakfast at Chick-Fil-A. Being the fatty that I am, the prospect of biting down into one of those decadent Chick-N-Minis was too much for me to resist.
But here’s the horrible part: for those of you who don’t know, Chick-Fil-A’s breakfast ends at 10:30 (which is ridiculous, because who wants to wake up early to eat breakfast???). My mom comes into my room (while I’m asleep) and asks if I still want to go, that it’s basically too late to go anyways.
This was not ok with me. I jump out of bed. “What time is it?!?!” I cry out in terror. “We’ve only got 15-20 minutes to make it,” mom says, checking her phone for the time. “We’d have to leave now to make it in time. ” I run out of my room in a panic, quickly brushing my teeth, putting in my contacts, and bumming it out in a tshirt and some shorts. I didn’t even put on any make-up, so I still had that “morning look” in my eyes. My mom looks me up and down when we get in the car. “You look pretty bed-raggled” she said skeptically, or something like that.
Honestly, mom. I know I always look sooo put-together and fabulous, but you gave me a deadline, and that meant no “beautification”. “Really, mom?” I ask her irritably. “Do you really want to do this right now?” She snorts and laughs at me. “You look like you missed your beauty sleep or something!” She laughs out. I frown. “Let’s just go. I’m hungry.”
So we get there, me rockin’ the “ratchet” look, and we rush in, hoping, praying that, even though we had arrived at exactly 10:31, they would still serve us our decadent breakfast. My heart fell when he said that breakfast had just ended. Mom looks at me, not knowing what reaction to expect out of me. I look down in defeat and say tearfully, “let’s just get lunch, then,” I choke out past a sob that swelled up in my throat. (Actually, not really. I was crying on the inside.)
So we order our “lunch”, and while we’re waiting for our food, another guy comes up to the cashier we had just ordered from and asked for breakfast. The jerk replies, “sure, we’ve got a couple of leftovers on the side, but you’re welcome to them.” Mom’s mouth drops open and I can tell she’s about to protest violently against this miscarriage of chicken justice.
I grab her hand, look soulfully into her eyes, and say softly through the tears, “Close your mouth, mom. He’s not worth it.” She looks at me, indignation flared up in her eyes. I give her a look that says “It’ll be ok.” We eat our chicken forlornly, solemnly swearing that we would not be mistreated as such ever again.