Sunday, August 22, 2010
It's my birthday and I'll cheat if I want to...
John always teases about how immature I can be, but it's true...I don't want to grow up. I never have. I never thought adulthood was cool aside from what I perceived as complete freedom, being able to do whatever you want, whenever you wanted to do it. Otherwise, nothing was finer than having the time to swim all day at the neighbor's pool, taking field trips to museums or nature reserves, baking with my mom on sleepy Sundays, watching old movies in her California King bed and being so caught in the swirl of a great book that reality simply dissolved around me. Responsibility was a dirty word.
Naturally, the dark clouds that had been looming all morning, burst and dumped their heavy summer rain before we were halfway to our destination on Magazine Street. I was in the mood for La Divina Gelateria's wonderful panini and some elegant sweets from Sucre just down the street. A little rain wasn't going to stop me. Well, in this case, not even a lot of rain. The closest residential (a.k.a. free) parking was on 6th Street, so we had to slog it through the downpour for two blocks without an umbrella, dodging gutter showers, sidewalk rivers and tourists enveloped in plastic. I suppose I shouldn't poke fun at the slicker-savvy visitors seeing as they were, at the very least, prepared.
Just as I was about to mount the gelato case and tear off her head, a relieved smile split across her face as she spotted the long-awaited delivery walking in through the door behind me. She seemed to understand how narrowly she eluded disaster and immediately took my order. The only decently-lit table in the house left was nauseatingly close to a trio of sorority girls who only served to push me deeper into the funk with their incessant chattering, giggling and breathing with pubescent enthusiasm.
Thankfully, I ordered a double mocha.
John had a Francese, which I've enjoyed before on several occaisons. It features Italian ham, brie, a few sliced cornichon pickles and a slathering of Dijon mustard pressed between that always extraordinary bread. John said he liked his sandwich better, but I loved them both equally...mine was just tangy and spicy while John's was salty and creamy. (Am I the only one blushing from that sentence?)
After everything we went through and all that I finally got to enjoy, I still felt somewhat guilty about cheating twice in one week. A friend of mine said "birthday calories don't count." Is that true?
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