When The Universe Spits (Chick-Fil-A) In Your Face

When The Universe Spits (Chick-Fil-A) In Your Face
Chicken for one

As an independent, single woman, I am perfectly secure doing things by myself.  For instance, I live alone, I like going to movies alone.  I enjoy sitting at Starbucks with one cup of coffee at a table, alone.  I cope going to weddings without a guest, put in a corner and seated with other misfits.  These things do not embarrass me.  Recently though, I challenged my confidence and found there are some things no matter how secure you are, that you should avoid doing alone.  Some things (it turns out) are pathetic no matter what.  Eating in a Chick-Fil-A restaurant all by your lonesome is one of those things.

A sober dinner of fast food is bad to begin with.  Then try eating at an anti gay business and eating fast food sober becomes ridiculously, utterly, and embarrassingly pathetic.  Not only are insecurities of looking like a fat ass- loser secured when you dine alone at Chick-Fil-A, but you confirm what a straight up asshole you are to the Gay community.  A dining establishment that serves nothing but chicken and causes public controversy over religious issues is a haven for embarrassment.  This type of place is not somewhere I want to pride myself about independence or social stature.  The shame of eating fried chicken alone in public is just not something an affluent, white, single, female should admit to.  Then I was busted.  And when I say busted I mean seen by a guy I was dating.  A guy I dated and who blew me off (to be exact).

An affair with fried chicken sandwiches is a high caloric, emotional binge.  Not the end of the world... but it kind of is for people with “white girl problems”.  Obvi.  I mean, doesn’t the stress of dating gives way to this sort of thing?  Maybe it does, but the universe does not.  As my luck would have it, the day I was brushed off by a guy, was the same day he walked past and witnessed me mowing down in the window.  I was paranoid as it was.  Was this The Gods way of punishing me for eating at the sacrilegious chicken shop?  In all of Chicago, all of the neighborhoods, all of the restaurants, and all of the minutes in the day- why did he have to walk by the exact same place, at the exact same time I decided to unload my anger into an extra large #1 combo meal?  All alone, in the window, of a fucking chicken chain- I sat.  Let’s face it.  It’s depressing.  It’s pathetic.  And I did it.

There is no positive spin on what a loser I felt like at that moment. No matter how starving and totally parched anyone is- gay, straight, skinny, fat; it’s a sad scene.  Nobody wants their crush to witness them looking like a lonely, dork- loser in a window of a fast food restaurant.  And what could top off this humiliating circumstance better than a text from the jerk that read, “How’s your chicken?”.  Only an asshole would rub it in your face that he saw you, right?

I tried to equate this scenario to an embarrassing moment like farting in front of a boyfriend for the first time.  I’m afraid that would be an understatement.  It would be more like shitting out a chicken as opposed to a cute little toot slipping out.  I want to meet the person who can find sophistication and pride in getting ditched then turn to an anti-gay establishment to drown their sorrows in greasy food.  I would rather been seen eating my own boogers that day than seen at Chick-Fil-A.  I would do anything to go back and avoid this humiliating experience.  Pretend the whole thing was a bad dream but it was not even a dating nightmare.  It was just my own reality:  I was ditched and the man who ditched me witnessed a lonely, pathetic blonde, eating fried chicken at Chick-Fil-A, all alone.  That Blonde was me.

I learned a very important lesson that day.  I learned that no matter how cool I think I am, I’m not:  I am not cool.  Throwing the douche-bag in front of the window at the exact same time I gorged myself was the perfect reminder.  Maybe the world has a way of telling us that we are all pathetic in our own right.  It at least has a hell of a way to make us feel like it.  Next time, I will not drown my sorrows in Chick-Fil-A, unless I want the universe to spit in my face or I want to feel really pathetic just for the hell of it.  A fried chicken sandwich and lemonade combo meal is not worth the humiliation.  Plus, I like gay people.

 

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    Rebecca Williams

    Classically trained in the French culinary with a creative culinary career includes teaching cooking classes, published food writing, and dynamic experiences throughout the food industry. An aspiring author, proud University of Iowa alum, real blonde (with a few additional highlights for good measure), self entertainer, bombshell wannabe, wild woman and pseudo realist. I have a great family, amazing friends and sometimes I eat cake and ice cream for breakfast.

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