C is for Cookie

Sometimes I feel as if everyone around me has gotten a memo to prepare them for the appropriate thing to do or say in a particular situation. I did not get this memo. I never get the memo.

I just had lunch with three other women. I ordered first. I ordered the hunk of grilled chicken sandwich on foccacia with lots of cheese and fries on the side. Everyone else? Salads. Salads, salads and more salad. This is what professional grown up women do at lunch. They eat salad. And then I always feel as if I am merely pretending to be a grown up and a professional, when in reality, I am the porky child hogging all the fries. Yes, I would like ketchup with that, thank you.

After lunch I return to the office, when one of the guys I work with walks down the hall munching on the most enormous chocolate chip cookie. Without missing a beat and with his mouth full of cookie, he points to the empty conference room strewn with lunch left over from a meeting and mumbles “cookies.”

I am much happier I got the cookie memo over the salad memo. Much, much happier.