Somehow today I ended up running behind to go teach class. It hit me as I was getting ready that I had not eaten lunch and that I wasn’t going to have time to fix anything. I knew there was a Subway on route so I just decided I would make a quick stop on the way. My brother had given me a coupon for a $3 dollar sub so I thought this was the perfect moment to cash it in. I may have been running behind but everything was still falling into place just right. By the time I got to the Subway I knew that I only had five spare minutes to get a sub and be back in my car and then make my five minute drive to class.
When I started to get out of my car I realized that I had forgotten my lifeline…my check card. I remember leaving it right on the corner of my dresser. I started to panic as I was running late and was getting really hungry and then I remembered that I had gone to the bank and had money sitting right there in one of those white envelopes they give you at the drive through. I opened it up only to find that they had cashed a check in hundreds….seriously? Do I look like a pimp/drug dealer? Do I look like I want to LOOK like a pimp/drug dealer? After digging through my arm rest and coming up with $1.67, I realized that I was just going to have to pimp it out and walk into Subway with my head held high and not worry about what other people might think. It was my only option, so I marched into Subway at 12:50 with a $3 coupon in one hand and a hundred dollar bill in the other. I was starving...and pushing the clock.
I ordered my six inch sub and could feel my heart racing as my sandwich architect just didn’t share my sense of urgency. I could also feel my inner man/beast growling and I am pretty sure I salivated on the sneeze guard (overshare?). As I handed the cashier my coupon and my hundred dollars I noticed a sign on the cash register that read, “We do not accept bills over $20.” I prayed the girl working there hadn’t read the Subway handbook. She looked at me and said that she couldn’t take it. I told her it was all that I had but she insisted, in her second language, “Eat’s ouwah pole a/c” . I stood there with the coupon and Benjamin back in my hands and tried to convince her that I was starving and that the bill was real and that they had already had their lunch rush and surely had plenty of change but this girl wouldn’t budge. I looked at her, then at my sandwich that I couldn’t buy, then back at her, and for a split second, I had a criminal mind. I had a flash of pushing her backwards , grabbing my sandwich and running out the door. “I can take her” ran through my head for about a half a second. But in this “survival of the fittest” scenario I knew she would be able to catch me and the other customers would more than likely slam me to the ground or at least ID my get-away-tank. I snapped back to reality only to hear her repeat the company policy.
I got back into my car sandwichless, now with only five minutes to spare. I floored it and set a new land yacht speed record. That drive from interstate exit to interstate exit was the longest four minutes of my life. I knew there was no way I could stand up in front of that class for two hours with sugar-free blood. My mind raced and I thought about the fact that there was a huge gas station right off the interstate exit that is all of 60 seconds from class. “Interstate gas stations have tons of money,” I told myself. I pulled into that gas station like a cheetah going after its prey. I did a quick scan of the aisles and bam, there were the protein bars all side by side. There were so many to choose from at this interstate gas station/rest stop. I reached for the one I recognized and then noticed there was a chocolate one on sale and another. I went from bar to bar; I bar hopped and nabbed the one on sale. Then I went right up to the cashier, whipped out my hundred dollar bill and the cashier didn’t bat an eye. I was out the door in under 60 seconds-ish. I’ve never eaten a protein bar in three bites before, but that I only had one minute until class time and I didn’t want to be late. I know walking into the room at the exact moment I was supposed to start talking wasn’t exactly what you would call “early” but I knew I didn’t want to be “late”.
I looked at the wrapper from my protein bar, right before I got out of the car because to be honest, from what I briefly tasted of it, it was delicious. Across one corner of the wrapper were three little words, “Now with fiber!” “Hmmmm, my lower GI tract was still holding a grudge since last week’s “Fiberoo 2013” when I grazed on a handful of Fiber One bars throughout the day. I couldn’t decide if I should be concerned or not but since I was already walking into the building and into a classroom full of people and the clock was hitting 1:00 on the dot, I had no time to think things through.
I could tell I was on high alert throughout the first hour but all went well. For some reason, after I gave everyone a five minute break and class started back up, I felt a twinge….a rumble…a dissention among the ranks. I hadn’t been talking two minutes when I felt my colon raise its hand and ask, "May I be excused?" Oh no…not again. My brain quickly split into right brain/ left brain. The right side kept me talking and the story going. The left side of my brain started strategic maneuvers to align a complete system lock down, secure the boarder and sent out strict orders for all systems to “cease and desist”. I’ve never concentrated so hard in my entire life. I was sweating.
By the end of class people were crying all over the place. I must have been a bit intense, what with all the concentrating. I think it is the first time I have spoken while not smiling. I am going to say that they could probably see the pain in my face and I probably looked really serious. Looking back, I feel sorry for the people sitting in class but there wasn’t a part of my brain left to handle reminding me to relax my face and smile. Sorry, but I wasn’t about to stand up there and “Al Roker” myself right in front of the class. Apparently my recent “lower GI training” had paid off and the crises had gone from high alert to low alert.
On the way back home I thought about what had been averted. I went through the whole “worst case scenario” (Al Rokering) and I think that if that had played out, I would have just walked straight out the door, faked my own death and moved to a third world country under the name of Marcos Antonio. I might have sent a card home to let everyone know that I was ok…but I am not sure about that. A fake death feels more appropriate.
I got off at the next exit and pulled into that same Subway. I walked in with my $3 coupon in one hand and a ten dollar bill in the other. The girl didn’t even recognize me. I was dying to know who ate my sandwich from earlier but I didn’t ask. I got to the cashier and she didn’t recognize me from my pimp/drug dealer days either. I wanted to make a point or let them know that they had almost been responsible for a fake death and my permanent disappearance but I had another appointment and time was still of the essence. It was so hard for me to say “thank you” and not let them know what they had almost put me through…Al Roker…I mean, that is serious. The grilled chicken was cold …after all that, the grilled chicken was cold. One thing is for sure, when you eat their grilled chicken cold, you learn something…that’s not grilled chicken.
No more bar hopping for me, ever. It’s Powerbar or nothing. I don’t trust anything else. I will also never leave home without my check card and I also need to have a talk with my bank teller. It’s actually rare that I ever go to the bank and cash a check. It took a lot of random acts of nature for my Saturday to turn out so exciting. Obviously, if I am writing about this, I have no life. Isn’t this more of a nursing home story? I can’t imagine what I will be talking about when I am in my 90’s. It might be a good thing for me to go ahead and assign a power of attorney to make sure that I don’t have a Facebook page when I get that age. I can’t imagine what I would write about if my “self-edit” button was worn out. It’s bad enough as it is. Sorry mom, I know you raised me more better.
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