As she rang up my terrible-for-you diet soda, I watched the man open his bag of One Thing, extract said One Thing, and begin tearing into the packaging without a care for tabs or perforated lines. Just outside the automatic door, he began eating it with his fingers.
Okay, strange, but not so strange until I say... the One Thing was a half-gallon carton of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.
And he didn't wait to get in his car to dig in. Nope. He stood in the parking lot, eating that ice cream with his fingers.
It was just like the photo, only with fewer roses and more mint-green ice cream dripping off his fingers. Also, it probably wasn't Mickey Roarke. Just sayin'.
Things I should consider before judging:
- It was 85 degrees today(surprising after our recent crap weather). That's ice-cream weather.
- Maybe he didn't have a car and walked to the store for that ice cream
- Maybe he was having low blood sugar issues and thought... To hell with plastic spoons! (like ya do)
I try to look at least somewhat presentable when I'm in public. And I know I'm irrevocably weird, but I really try not to look crazy(in a bad way) in front of people--especially people I want to think well of me. But since seeing this strange(&probably stoned) dude with his ice cream, I've been wondering, in my whole life, what have I wanted badly enough to stop caring what other people think of my efforts to obtain it? I can't even regularly shut off my internal editor to write without reservations, even when I'm the only one who will read it. I might judge me! I know what a harsh critic I am, and I'll give me hell if I write something exceedingly stupid. Or somewhat stupid, if it's not also funny at the same time.
I kind of want a little of what he has, that Don't-Give-a-Damn-I'm-eatin-my-ice-cream spirit.
Like a cup of it, not the whole half-gallon.