Last summer, we had a food truck at work.
We have them a couple times a month when it’s warmer, and people from our whole building frequent said food truck, not just my offce.
(Also, as an aside, some days I’ll get something from the truck and return to my desk with a Styrofoam container or a little open food tray with hot food in it, and inevitably someone will say, “Oh, is that from the food truck?”
I realize I am the World’s Crabbiest Person, but this drives me berserk. Where else would it be from? Did you think I just make a Philly cheesesteak at home and put it in an open container for lunch? Even anticipating that question has made me so cranky that I spend my entire food truck lunch tensed up, waiting for 15 people to ask, “Oh, is that from the food truck?” At this point, I get something from the truck and put the usually open container in my car and drive home, just to avoid that conversation.)
But that is not why I’ve gathered you here today.
I’ve gathered you here to talk about forgiveness.
Last summer, the, you know, food truck came to work and parked itself in our parking lot. I traipsed out there, keys in hand, ready to get my food and scurry home, away from The Question, so that Edsel could say, “dat be frum fud truk?”
Anyway, the line was sort of haphazardly formed, and I saw someone I knew and went over to say hello. “Oh, is your food going to come from the food truck?”
The point is, this little
from another company said, “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?”
He was talking to me. Don’t ma’am me, you little twit.
“I don’t mean to be rude.”
Any time someone says they don’t mean to be rude, they 100% mean to be rude.
“But, we were here? Behind you? You just cut in line.”
I mean, they hadn’t been behind me. They’d been clustered sort of messily in the general vicinity. But I said, “Oh! I’m so sorry! Of course!” and, humiliated, got behind them in line.
Three young boys they were, probably early 20s, although at this point early 20s and mid-30s look the same to me. Everyone I see under 40 has a beard and skinny jeans and I have no way of knowing if they’re edging toward male-pattern baldness or just got voting rights.
Seconds later, I am not even kidding you, SECONDS LATER, their young stupid friend joined them. “Hey!” he said, all happy to see a coworker, the way I was.
AND THEY LET HIM STAY. THEY LET HIM “cut in line.” Even though they’d just admonished me for the same thing.
Here’s what I have to talk to you about. That was last summer. I AM STILL LIVID.
I really am. I mean, when I even pass another door to another office here in this building, I think of that incident and burn right up. I don’t even smile when I see someone I don’t know in the parking lot, in case they know those horrible boys.
What I want to know is, how do people forgive real things if I can’t even get past the food truck incident? Like, how do Holocaust survivors forgive, and I’m over here still burning mad over millennials?
I’m seriously asking this. Cause, oooooo, I’m mad.
I’m also still angry over something that happened in 1981. There was a boy, Giovanni Leftwich, who like like liked me all spring and all summer and all fall, and he was constantly coming over and making his 10th-grade move and so on. Finally, over Christmas break, finally I came around to his side and liked him back.
We had two glorious 10th-grade-romance weeks, when out of nowhere he broke up with me. He didn’t even break up with me, really, he just disappeared, and I finally had to call him at home to ask what was up. “I don’t like you because you’re a flake,” he yelled, and I burst into tears and was brokenhearted and did my best to carry on and then
THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
it dawned on me.
HE WAS THE DAMN FLAKE.
Oh my god, this sizzles my chaps. HE WAS THE FLAKE. He did nothing but hit on me for months and then when I liked him back? Oh, forget it. Never mind.
Okay, so tell me. How do you not sit around being livid about things that really don’t matter that much?
Also, is that from the lunch truck?