Two weeks of hanging out with my childhood friends have left me suffering from mild kidney pain and acute poverty. Though still several months shy of my 30th year, I just can’t seem to binge drink the way I used to — and not for lack of trying.
I mention my struggles with alcohol not to highlight yet another deficiency of my character, but rather to explain away the sad state of my pocketbook. I didn’t even want to risk a trip to the supermarket this weekend in the interest of avoiding the discomfort I’d feel should my debit card be declined. Weeks like this are the reason I keep the pantry well-stocked. I feel no qualms about spinning my circumstances when talking with Tara. I’m not too poor to buy meat. I’m interested in exploring vegetarian options. Hello lentil soup and meatless spaghetti.
The only problem with my approach is that I didn’t have any emergency lunch fixings kicking around. I’d planned on eating a week-old couscous I’d left in the fridge at work last week, but when I opened it up, the stench of rotting Merguez nearly knocked me over. It appeared I’d have to chance having my card declined at one of the NE’s many fast food restaurants. Not exactly an enticing lunch option.
I ended up in the drive-through at Wendy’s on 32nd Avenue. I ordered a Spicy Chicken combo with regular size fries and a Coke. The clerk then asked what size I wanted. I glanced at the menu board to ensure I was using the correct terminology and then specified that I had meant medium when I said regular. I just assumed that would be understood. I promise to hold fast food personnel to a lower standard in the future.
Regardless of this woman’s stupidity, I promptly received my food, passed my card through the window and punched in my PIN. I made sure the car was in gear, and as soon as I handed it back to her, I hit the gas. I’m still not sure if the transaction was approved or not. I don’t really care.
Full either way,