Day I: Budger

I’m fortunate to have a job where I am afforded a little bit of time in the afternoon to recharge my batteries. Whether it’s a walk through a far-too-crowded skyway, a lazy jaunt to Caribou—the one with the cute staff, obviously, not that other shit show upstairs—or the anxious-cum-rewarding hunt for your stomach’s most private desires, the 1:00 timeslot is the single most relaxing portion of the workday. Yes, lunch is one of those sacred times: a rare moment when everything is right in the world.

And sometimes there's that one person who just has to ruin it for you.

Not pictured: crying children waiting in line

Hey, lady, yes you. I am talking to you. You in the lavender jacket and felted cap. You in your unassuming UGG knockoffs. You with the purse and the fake cold and just so much change jangling in your coat pockets!

You guys: this shady bitch.

So it's probably pretty frowned upon to make so much out of such a small event. But my lunch was irrevocably ruined by this little thing who thought age--and a little delirium--gave her the right to just barge on up to the counter. Listen, I undertand that she didn't really understand the concept of the massive queue patiently waiting their respective turns. But which part of Minneapolis are you usually in that you can just walk up to the bank counter at LUNCHTIME and expect to be the first one helped? 

I must have made quite the face behind this little lilac. The teller--didn't catch her name, but she's always so sharply dressed and bubbly--caught my glance, and her eyes sparked to life. She must have seen the rage coursing over my pupils because she assisted that little old toad as quickly as possible and ushered me forward with a nervous, "Sorry about that, what a little budger!"

'Budger!' 

Now there's a word I haven't heard since high school, standing in line for seconds on "Ham Patty on a Bun Day." 

Does anyone else miss hot lunch?!