Mr. Porter and I visited a breakfast joint on Saturday for a little brunch. I had the French Toast special; Mr. Porter had the quiche. Everything was delicious. When it came time to get the check, the waitress asked, “Anything else?” as she pushed the check towards me with no intention of taking it back.
“Yes, I would like a lemon poppy-seed muffin, to go.” Now, maybe I’m simple-minded, but to me, to go means “stick it in a bag and hand it to me,” which should take, eh, maybe 3 minutes because it was a little busy.
She grabbed the check back, and robotically stated, “Sure, no problem.” She turned and walked to the muffin area, grabbed the muffin with the tongs, but instead of tossing it into a paper bag, she stuck it on a plate and handed it to the cook. Huh? It’s already cooked. Just give it to me. Now.
Two tables of boisterous twenty-somethings took turns using the restroom, while chattering about, well, filthy young men stories that I didn’t want to listen to anymore.
Hand me my muffin already.
Another table of four diners ordered their meals. Still no muffin.
Fifteen minutes later, the waitress came back, handed me a styrofoam box, and stated proudly, “Here’s your muffin, all heated up for you.” My bones froze in place. What? Nothing came out of my mouth. I grabbed the box, turned around and left.
Once seated in the car, I took the muffin out of the box, and felt it for heat. “Did she put this in the microwave? I hope she didn’t put this in the microwave! I think the middle is hotter than the outside. I didn’t want this in the microwave. She could have at least ASKED me if I wanted it heated. I’m not going to eat it until later.”
Side note: My microwave fixation is due to the fact that I have already had cancer twice, and I have stopped using the microwave after doing research on how it nukes our food, changing the molecules, and stealing the nutrition.
Also, I was angry because she didn’t ask me if I would like it heated. To go means to eat later. Control freak tendencies, anyone?
As Mr. Porter drove us to our next location, I tried to figure out why I was so furious. In the real world, this is not a problem. I know that. I have been through the valleys of life and a microwaved muffin is not a crisis. But it was on Saturday. My skeleton shook with fury as if I had watched my best friend being murdered by ISIS.
My conclusion is that the anger was not about the muffin–it was the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back. All the years of true injustices, heartbreaks, pain, death, job stress, bosses from hell, the stress that I bottled up for decades came to a head in that instant–that’s what caused the fury. I chose to breathe it out. It was recognized, it was named, and it was let go. Well, mostly.
Then I ate the muffin. It was delicious.