Serves me right for trying to eat healthy.

While feeling particularly self-righteous and smug today, I decided to make the landmark decision to eat lunch from the salad bar. Boldy I stalked past the fried, fatty foods, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the daily special: hot wings that smelled like barf.

Upon reaching my goal, I was a bit unnerved. Yes, the ingredients at the bar were protected by a sneeze-guard, but the lettuce was low and you never know who may have snotted into their hands and not used the tongs. Ruthlessly, I persevered. No ham cubes, a little bacon, olives, egg, cherry tomatoes, Italian dressing--yes, my rather smushed-looking masterpiece was almost complete. I turned around and made a pass at the opposite side of the bar, ignoring what looked suspiciously like a mesh of quinoa and tapioca pudding. 

Finally, (mostly) vegetarian perfection. My cousin would be proud. 

Then, terror struck.

As I sidled past the many grease-guzzling fatties in line behind me for their daily dose of chicken feed, I knocked over a large stack of plate-sized lids placed at knee-level. Lids ironically to be used to keep you from spilling things. Things like food. 

As I bent down to pick up the lids (always the contentious consumer and respectful patron), all the salad lids in the world could not stop the tragedy that was to come. Quickly, with reckless abandon, my salad flew took advantage of my immediate distraction and flew off the plate and onto the floor--using my precious Italian dressing as some kind of sick luging lube. 

As the blood rushed to my face, noises around me faded, and I achieved a heightened awareness of those around me waiting to get THEIR bastard salads--their foul cottage cheese and Thousand Island dressing-topped abominations. Using my plate as a dust pan, I hastily scraped up what was left of my salad (that now resembled something a very sick vegetarian would expel) with one of the accursed lids. 

At least it was almost over.

Oh God, where are those people who clean things up when there are spills? Janitors? I had a friend once who threw up in the store and had people fighting over who had to clean it up. Maybe that's what happened?

Almost done, and as I turn to rise, yet another stack of lids rains down next to me--I'm pretty sure the bitch next to me nudged them on purpose. Up they go. I will not be blamed for her folly. 

As I stand up, hands sticky with that fucking Dago dressing, a spindly old spinster hobbles up with a broom and a dust pan. "It's okay, honey, there's a hole right over there..." she motions to a trash can "hole" about half the size of what I need to toss my trash into. I hastily--nay, angrily--stuff it into the hole. Bastard salad can go to hell. 

Fuck it. I'm getting a burger.