So I like fast food as much as any other person: French fries are great, sandwiches are in general highly suspicious (especially after I read Fight Club. EUGH), and you better not stand in my way when there are chicken nuggets involved. But, I have come to accept the fact that, once I graduate from college and get my own lousy car, I’ll have to kiss my fast food diet goodbye- nothing but rice and ramen for poor ole post-grad me.
And it’s not for some snooty reason like health benefits, of which I’m sure there are many. No, I won’t ever be able to eat fast food because I’ll be too terrified to order.
Even as a socially awkward robot, my difficulty with fast food, and restaurants in general, is unique. It’s like my body was programmed to switch into awkward mode as soon as any chain restaurant establishment is in my vicinity.
It started out when I was young, and my parents would have to coerce and/or threaten me with public humiliation order to get me to the counter of a fast food place.
“Just go up and get a refill, Chewitt, they’re NOT GOING TO BITE YOU.”
But I never believed, and when they did finally manage to push me up to the cash register, my requests would be either indecipherable or barely audible.
“Can I get a Xciueiezbcnv please? I said I’d like to get a Wrwortiwrsos?” And then I’d turn pink and float up to the ceiling.
Now that I am a poised, confident woman, I can enunciate. It’s just the rest of it that I screw up. I have the hearing ability of a senile bagpipe player with an inordinate amount of hair growing out of his ears, so when some gawky cashier dude tells me how much change I’m getting back, I hear, “There’s a waffle on your shirt.” ”Will you marry me?” ”My socks are turning blue, have a nice day.”
Then of course, retrieving and receiving money is an ordeal in and of itself. My one dollar bills can always be counted upon to arrange themselves into complex origami folds as soon as I need one, and if I need to get change? Psh- I’m fishing for one measly nickel and all the dimes, quarters and pennies decide that this is the moment to see if they can sprout wings and fly out of my changepurse.
If I were in a movie, when all of my loose change went flying, I would scramble on my hands and knees to collect it, and my hand would bump into the hand of some charming guy with glasses slipping halfway down his nose and he would ask me out for coffee.
But most of the time I get dirty looks from the woman wearing a skirt and a bunch of lint on my hands.
So that’s it for part one. Part two, Why I Will Never Eat Fast Food As an Adult: Drive-Thru/Sit-down version will be coming your way soon.
Stay classy my friends, and if you go for fast food, eat some chicken nuggets for me.
Socially Oxward 