Here’s a story that I tell you more as a warning than anything else. In fact there is no other reason I can (with an existing conscience) admit as to why I am sharing it.
I took a plane from Chicago back to D.C. today. I actually missed my original flight because I was the last person to check in so they bumped me and put me on a later flight. I graciously accepted my fate in the form of a complimentary voucher and some extra time.
As a consolation prize of sorts, I went and bought myself a burrito. Veggie with all the fixings if you must know! They stacked and packed that mound of nutrients; it was locked and loaded for deliciousness with an intent to satiate hunger.
So I got on the later flight, paper burrito sack in tow, and I promptly fell asleep. This action turned out to be great timing because the flight was delayed and I slept through most of the tarmac time including waiting in a queue of jets to take off. If you think waiting in line at the post office is bad, try waiting in a line of airplanes at the going postal office. Ok so nobody actually suddenly raged out, but the old lady next to me did put her head in her hands and sigh so heavily that the bookmark in her Sue Grafton novel slightly ruffled. I know!! Pretty crazy stuff.
Anyhoohaw, we eventually took off with no great fanfare and so did my appetite. My friend Joe warned me about not eating a complicated meal on the plane, but I brushed off his advice. The old lady next to me cracked into her Starbucks scone so, as far as I was concerned, it was game time for the stomach fiesta!
Burritos are always inhumanely large. I should have factored that into my calculations. I wonder if this guy did.
photo courtesy of Flickr and Dan Phiffer
Well, shortly into my foray down Guac n’ Cheese Lane, something horrible happened. Salsa started dripping down my arms, or more accurately, into the sleeves of my jacket. I tried to prevent the leakage, but when I corked one tomato spout, another one would dribble out somewhere else. It was hopeless. I could barely eat that monster quick enough. And then, when it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, a single, bold black bean fell down my shirt.
Once I managed to sandbag most of the condiment flood and jam the rest of the soggy tortilla down my gullet, I decided to conduct a full-fledged bean investigation. I found it, lodged in the nook of my bra. Well, of course, as I tried to extricate it, it fell way down into the lower torso region. I searched everywhere, the seat, my person, and the persons next to me (“Excuse me, but have you seen a single, orphaned black bean? No? Well, thanks for nothing!”), but it was nowhere close to be-an found. Giving it up for lost, I went on with my seated life.
(Cut to three, suspenseful hours later…)
I was off the flight, bags in hand, and ready for the world! And then I went to the bathroom for a quick wash-up, and something bizarre and grotesque happened. I found the bean. Lodged in the holy sanctuary of my belly button, seeking asylum for the past (tomato and avocado) chunk of my life. I threw my fists at the sky yelling “Why! Why! Whyyyyyyyyyy!”
You guys think you’re so fun and carefree. I’m never falling for it again.
photo courtesy of Flickr and Amy Grace Elizabeth
There were no answers. There still aren’t. The black bean’s family is still making inquiry as to his whereabouts. There was salsa all over the crime scene. [Roll Lawwww and Hors D’oeuvres credits].
P.S. Yes, I have an innie. How dare all of you.