Here’s the scenario: you go out to dinner, have several margaritas start walking towards a bar when suddenly your companion announces: “Thanks for dinner. I think I’m going to go to Jewel Osco. I’m out of Kashi.”
Was that a date?
And if it was, is it still a date if you offer to go with?
This is what happened to me, and I don’t wish it upon any Disaster. Have you ever been inside a Jewel-Osco at 10pm on a Friday night? It’s a freakshow carnival. But I was too buzzed to go home, and too drunk to make good decisions. And when I make bad decisions I don’t wind up with STDs, or pregnant, or thousands of dollars in debt. I wind up wandering aisle 6, looking for my “date,” and wondering why if the Quakers have their own line of cereal, home come I’ve never seen Frosted Catholics or Jew Berry Crunch?
My companion was nowhere to be found, but I followed his lead. I picked up some Quaker Oats (who actually eats these? I told you, I was wasted, but that oat guy—there’s something in those eyes of his…) and headed towards the dairy aisle so I could buy some milk. With milk and cereal in my apartment I’d really be dangerous! Now I wouldn’t need to go to brunch alone. No more solo Sunday Sudoku while girls around me order egg white omelettes with bacon and pretend they’re not in the same hoochie outfit from the night before. Gag me with a wooden spoon, Quaker Man. I’m over it.
But somewhere in the array of milk options it started getting weird. I mean, beyond buying-Kashi-on-a-date kind of weird. I saw a homeless woman with puke on the front of her shirt shoplift a lemon yogurt. A lemon yogurt. I don’t know whether I was more sad or revolted, but I do know I was drunk. So I did what any good drunk person would do: I Cindarella’d. I peaced out. I just walked away from my cart, leaving Quaker Man in front of the dairy case, staring back at me in silent disbelief.
I walked past the register and out the front door all the way home to my empty kitchen where I enjoyed a late night snack of ice.
I’m sorry Quaker Man. It’s not you, it’s me.
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