I was forced to go to lunch with my co-worker yesterday for a business lunch. I say “forced” because I don’t generally go out for lunch. Ever. I pack my lunch every day and I like it that way. Don’t get me wrong, I like her very much and find her quite competent, albeit a bit green, but I’d rather spend an hour reading food and fitness blogs than chatting about nothingness with the girl I spend 8 hours a day with.
Despite her 84 pound frame (that is not hyperbole. She is 5’6″ and weighs 84 pounds) she ordered her usual: shrimp alfredo pasta, garlic bread, Caesar salad and juice. I ordered a Greek salad, vinaigrette on the side, and water. When I plopped my crumpled napkin from my lap to my empty-except-for-a-few-big-chunks-of-feta plate to indicate I was finished she turned to me and said, “Oh! I guess you liked it! You cleared your plate!”
And I didn’t even shred her face to dangly, melty strands of bloody flesh with the tines of my fork! I call that “personal growth”.