There comes a time in every woman's life when she must decide which path to take...when someone steals her food from the company fridge. I know, I know. One little pear isn't a big deal. But when that pear was handpicked from the overpriced produce section at Dominick's in the dead heat of a company weight-loss competition? Houston, we have a problem.
For 5 months, I started my day the same. Rise 2 hours before work, eat a nutritious brekkie, bike to work, place a salad, an apple, and a string cheese in the fridge. I'd power through 3 liters of water, get to lunch hour, eat, and look forward to that stupid apple and string cheese as a snack. There were 23 of us in this competition, and although items had been stolen from the fridge in the past, we as a team outnumbered the bad guys. No one was taking the holy diet food, even if it was unmarked. Until the day I brought the pear.
The pear was a choice I had made through labor intensive fiber study. By labor intensive, I mean surfing the net between incoming calls at work. Becoming more dog-like in my eating habits, I needed to find a way to shake things up. A pear has more fiber than an apple, and it tastes great with white cheese (I prefer cheddar with my apples). So, not only did I get a pear, I got a gourmet red pear that had the perfect amount of squoosh when you gave it a gentle squeeze. I so looked forward to the granular, sweet, juicy treasure I lovingly placed in the crisper. Brekkie, bike, water, lunch, back to work. That beautiful baby was waiting for me, I just had to get to 3 o'clock.
It was time. I rose from my ergonomically unsound sitting device, removed the wireless telecommunication tool from my ear, and made the commute to the northernmost region of the office: The Lunchroom. I brushed off any passing salutations. No time for that. Nay, I would not make the effort to turn off the television set that was blaring a sports match, even though nary a soul was there to watch. My sights were set on the towering stainless steel box that housed the pear of my dreams. I grasped the cold black handle. With all my might, I pulled. The gleaming lightbulb shone down on the contents of each glass shelf. Leftover mu shu. Bottles of half-used salad dressing. A lonesome diet coke. Where was she? My pear was nowhere to be found. I closed my eyes, then tried to look again. The string cheese was still there. But my lady had gone.
Only one person would stoop so low. I will protect his true identity, for there is a possibility he is innocent of... something, maybe. We'll call him Fitch. I bounded back through the coat-infested hallway, dashed past the overflowing file cabinets, swung the glass door wide open. And there he was. In my department. With red pear all over his mangy muzzle. One more glass door to open. I steeled myself. Be calm. Do what you can to avoid a scene. But confront! I turned the knob and entered.
"Hey, that's my pear," I casually accused.
"Oh, oh, this? Oh, oh, uh, oh, I uh, brought this from home. *Crunch. Slurp.*" The coward. What could I do? How do you deal with a liar? And who in their right mind would believe a dog of such low standards would actually pick a red pear from the fancy fruit section? He probably didn't even know it was a pear! He probably thought it was an apple with a weight problem. I tried to pity him. But I was angry. Angrier than I should have been. I went for a walk.
I called my pastor/guru/drinking buddy for help. "I know what Satan would do. I think I know what Jesus would do. But what do I do?"
"Well, do you think he did it because he was hungry? Maybe you could bring him another apple tomorrow," She offered.
"My plan is to take the Jesus route, with a Satan flare. I want to start knitting cozies for my fruit. That way, people will know it's mine."
Supportively, she agreed, "Oh, you could embroider a big 'B' on the cozy!"
"Well, that's where Satan comes in. I wouldn't embroider my name. I would write, 'Fuck off, Fatass' instead."
Hysterical laughter ensues.
"And here's the beauty part. In my fantasy, he pulls me into the head honcho office, cozy in hand, waving it wildly, accusing me of calling him 'Fatass,' but I will just shrug and tell my bosses that I meant my fat ass, 'I'm in a diet competition, and I want my fat ass to fuck off. I never imagined someone else would misinterpret my diet joke. Unless Fitch has something to confess. Do you Fitch?'"
"Well, I suppose if it's in a really nice cursive," Guru insisted. More laughter.
That night, I went home and made the most beautiful pear and apple cozies. And I didn't embroider anything on them. And the next day I did a double Jesus. I brought two apples. One for me. One if Fitch needed one.
And before I put them in the fridge, I licked both of them.
