Please. Don't Help Me.

I was standing at the counter of a sandwich shop. I periodically scooted down the line as progress was made building my sandwich.

Scoot. Wait. Scoot. Wait.

Next to me was a woman who scooted alongside. We stood in silence. Every now and then I'd glance at her, every now and again she'd glance at me before we'd scoot some more.

After a while all that scooting got me down to the plastic cookie display. Before I got to that temptation I had already decided I needed some cookies because my mouth told me so. My brain didn't agree, but as is often the case, my brain was overrulled by my mouth so I ordered chocolate chip cookies from what looked like a 12 year old running the cash register.

My counter-companion scooted up next to me as I placed my cookie order and said, "Those are 225 calories a piece."

I looked over at her, my brows furrowed.  She'd just totally violated me with unsolicited information about a food product.  Not cool.   It's like telling someone who is about to eat a hot dog what's actually in the hot dog.  Or telling someone buying Coke about the news feature you just saw last week about how carmel coloring causes cancer.

What would possess a person to tell the chubby chick the caloric content of the cookie she just ordered? That's just downright hostile if you ask me.

I stared at her for a few seconds trying to think of something really clever to say, but couldn't and was really disappointed.  Then I thought maybe I should just punch her in the mouth, but realized that was just me being cranky because I was down about 225 calories or so and just needed a little sugar boost to maintain my powerful mojo.

So, I just did my best to authenticate a chuckle and say, "Oh gosh, yes, and I'm going to love all 225 of them. And possibly 450 of them if I have two!"