Mmmm.
So I drove to McDonald's, got in the drive-thru lane, and waited. The person in front of me (whose window apparently didn't work, so she had to open her door) was taking her sweet time, but I didn't mind. I find I'm very patient when I'm on company time. Eventually I overheard some exchange between her and the McEmployee about how something wasn't working. I am 60 percent sure they were discussing the milkshake machine.
I started to worry. Could the milkshake machine be required to make frappés? I didn't know. This was a concern not only because the satisfaction of my McCraving was now at risk, but because I hate being told that I cannot get what I ordered. It makes me feel vulnerable. Weak. It makes me into someone who is unable to get what he wants, and must now live the shameful life of someone who everyone knows is nothing but the disappointed shell of a human being.
It also screws up the script I have carefully constructed for the occasion of this brief transaction. I don't do well off-script. And I'm caught so off-guard by all this that I continue to order things the can't provide. I once tried to order a Mocha Frappé and was told that their various machines were down and the only drink they had available was iced tea. So I asked for a vanilla milkshake. Sorry, they can only give me iced tea. So I asked for a Coke.
"I'M GETTING A MASTER'S DEGREE!" I wanted to squawk at the cashier, who no doubt expected to find my mommy's phone number stapled to the front of my shirt when I rolled up.
No-window lady pulled forward, and it was my turn. Panicking, worried I could not get my frappé, I reached blindly into my bag of McDonald's ordering scripts and said, "I'd like a large number one with coke."
Mm... wait, what?
This was not what I craved. It was not something I wanted. Having had supper a couple hours earlier, I wasn't even hungry.
I ate it, along with a large helping of self-loathing. Then I spent the remainder of the night trying not to throw up.
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