One Weird Way Society Informs You That You Eat Too Much Pizza
On Monday, I returned from a two-month stay in Mexico. We decided to go for a walk the next day, as it’d been a while since we’d been out walking in our nice neighborhood here in Portland — and, it being Spring, it was a gorgeous day out, anyway.
So, we made it up to Hawthorne Bouldvard and happened past Oasis Pizza where, up through February, I’d been ordering perhaps a bit much. I was a regular there, known by name. All I needed to do was call and say, “This is Jim.” No order necessary from there; they’d know to make me an extra large cheese pizza with a disgusting amount of extra sauce, baked extra crispy. They’d pack it with an extra serving of marinara sauce, and a bunch of parmesan cheese containers as well.
I’m walking by, about a block past, when I hear: “JIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMM!”
I turned around and squinted down the street. It was the girl who works there. She was shouting: “WHAT HAPPENED?????!!!! DID WE FUCK SOMETHING UP?????!!!!!!”
Slightly embarassed, I walked back toward her. “Oh, no,” I assured her, “I was just out of town for a few months!”
She seemed pretty relieved.
The thing is, I was eating pretty healthy while away, and am not in that pizza-every-day mode any longer, yet I also feel like they’re expecting me to call soon. … First-world problems, I guess.