What Is Wrong with Me?

I know, I know, that’s quite a straight line. But, seriously, there is a major glitch in my basic make-up.

I took Max to Dairy Queen for May Day, a holiday which Top Management and I have always celebrated (putting us in the one percent of one percent of Americans who do so). There was a small line in front of us, but within a minute of our arrival, there were no fewer than fifteen people behind and maybe even more. The one cashier and the one guy making up the orders were, needless to say, pretty harried. At one point it turns out the cone the dude’d just prepared was supposed to be in a cup so, barely even pausing to aim, he whipped it over his shoulder into a trashcan in the corner. It was a nice shot, but the waste of ice cream sent a visible shudder through the line; Max, in particular, was stunned and horrified by the wanton disregard for all that is good in life, which is pretty much how she views ice cream.

So Max gets her small vanilla cone with sprinkles and I wait for my medium Blizzard (with mint and oreos, thank you very much). And when the guy finally shoves it in my hands and rushes off to do the next order, I look down at the stubby little cup and wonder if Dairy Queen has changed their sizes in the three or four months since I’ve last been there. I look at the cup sizes atop the machine, though, and no, sure enough, my medium is actually a small. The woman next to me sees me looking and confirms that, yes indeed, he gave me the wrong size.

I try to catch his eye but he’s running around like crazy. I look at the line snaking through the place and decide that it’s just not worth it. So Max and I split.

But I was totally bummed out. Analyzing the situation I realize it’s incredibly foolish to be bummed that my medium ice cream is only a small. I mean, it’s not like I *need* more ice cream. And it’s not like I get this often, so any amount’s a nice treat. And talk about the glass being half-empty. I know all that. I do.

And yet there it is. I was still really bummed. And I realized I would honestly rather have had none than order and pay for a medium and only receive a small.

Which brings us back to: what the hell is wrong with me?

Top Management thinks it has something to do with my being the youngest, but then she thinks that about almost everything that’s wrong with me—and that’s a pretty hefty list.

It’s like when I was in high school and I’d get a hot dog and pal Karen would ask for a bite. But I didn’t want to give her a bite of my hot dog. It was mine, I ordered it, I paid for it and now I was going to eat it. And it’s not that I was cheap—I would have been more than happy to buy her a hot dog for herself. But she didn’t want a dog, she just wanted one bite (which, by the way, begs the question: what the hell was wrong with her?). I, meanwhile, didn’t want 90% of my dog, I didn’t want 110%, I wanted the dog, the whole dog and nothing but the dog (which, yes, leaves aside the question of what really was IN the dog).

So what makes me this way? I’m not generally a perfectionist, not even close, and I’m not even remotely a food nut—food is pleasant and necessary but I have no problems eating peanut butter and jelly or Oodles of Noodles for weeks on end; I have no need for a truly good meal, or even a not-good-but-a-favorite-meal, on any kind of a regular basis. So what explains this character flaw of mine?

Thinking it over as I write this, I suspect it’s possible I’ve gotten off-track in my own analysis by focusing on the food part. I think much of it is that when I order something—whether it’s food or books or CDs or whatever—I want and expect to receive what I ordered. Maybe that’s the problem. I simply expect people to do their jobs properly. And I understand why the guy messed this one up: he was doing a tough job under tough circumstances and we all make mistakes. So it’s not like I went nuts on the guy or called him out or feel like condemning him to the fifth circle or whatever—hell, I didn’t even make him re-do the order, since that would have meant screwing up his day and the day of all the folks in line even more. It just…bums me out.

And, yes, the easy solution is to stop eating ice cream altogether. Fortunately, I’ve never been one for easy solutions.

Comments

[Cay]

Well, perhaps it has something to do with being the youngest. Tentatively.

I'm the youngest and use to be faulty of this fault. : ) But God solved that. I had five children.

Nothing annoys me any longer. Or barely does. I can't hear the annoyance above all the other racket. : )