The buffalo sauce-to-ranch-to-chicken ratio was perfect. The Muenster reminded me of home. The chicken was juicy, possibly for the first time ever. The good Brownberry wheat represented a life mountain climbed.
Do you think the person who stole my lunch thought about any of this?
Do humans who steal lunches consider how a girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/husband carefully and lovingly packed this homemade chili and thoughtfully included a dollop of sour cream and bag of mexiblend cheese because it’s her favorite combination? Do they realize this little touch of love may be the only rainbow in Norm’s Seattle-grey workday filled with reminding procrastinators to update their time sheets?
I doubt it.
I don’t really care about losing my sandwich. I do hope you unexpectedly stub your toe every day for the rest of your life, but I’m not on a vigilante crusade for justice. Now I get to use the emotional earthquake that jarred me out of my daily mental meal routine to justify treating myself at Chipotle and taking a longer lunch. That’s fine. Double chicken burrito bowls make me feel like a man. Spontaneity gives me life.
I’m also not mad about not saving money. While I did bring my lunch to save a few dollars for weekend Fireball, I’m not poor. I could buy one of those organic, 6-pounds-of-veggies-in-every -bottle drinks every day to go with my sushi if I wanted to.
It’s the principle of the matter. Lunch is love. Romaine is romance. Ranch makes me randy. The realization some people don’t love love makes me sad.
If you do steal people’s lunches, at least have a heart about it. I would have appreciated a thank you note. Or a haiku:
I was real hungry,
Your sandwich gave me a hug,
I needed it. Thanks.
To whoever took my sandwich, it’s ok. I’d actually like to thank you. It taught me life lessons about flexibility, forgiveness and how to deal with loss.
That being said, if my buffalo chicken love orgy disappears again, I’m going to chop your fucking balls off.
P.S. If you have a sandwich you really care about, consider these bags: