About a thousand years ago, I worked in a very small coffee shop in a very small town. Every week, at least once a week, a quartet of ladies would come in after spending the morning together at the gym. All but one had those stylie (she said facetiously) nylon track suits and all would be suspiciously un-gnarly after what they claimed was a “killer” workout.
When I’m done with a killer workout? I’m not pretty enough to go anywhere, particularly not in the gym clothes I’ve just released five gallons of sweat into. Funktastic? Nope. Just funk.
Anyway. These ladies would come in and absolutely swoon over the dessert case, and then *tee hee* behind their hands about whether or not they should get cake (and they always did) and how “bad” that made them. For these ladies, I always felt like they did think it was a breach of moral conscience to have some goddamned cake if they wanted it. But who was I to judge?
Oh, right. I was the surly employee. That’s what we do. Plus, I could go on about how deciding to have a piece of cake or not does not in any way indicate an assault on your own morality or standing as a member of the community, but that’s a different rant for a different day.
I don’t think the following incident took place on Good Friday but I know it happened during Easter week. And quite frankly, it taught me the meaning of self-sacrifice and self-reflection in ways I’d never contemplated before. Just bear in mind…I’m not saying they’re good ways.
Meanwhile, at the Restaurant: Easter Edition
I just report what I see, people.
Peace out, y’all!