The Thought Process of Ordering Lunch

It is the hardest decision you’ll make all day.


It’s a little bit annoying that the person sitting next to me hasn’t finished her breakfast.

Like, it is a scone. You have two bites left. I think you can manage.

It’s also 11:45 a.m. and my personal policy is that if you miss the 11:30 mark to complete your morning meal and then leave it unattended (where is she by the way, the bathroom?) it’s fair game.

I am now having a staring contest with this dumb scone. I hate you, scone. Why aren’t you a croissant or something useful? Why do you have to get crumbs everywhere? Why aren’t you legally mine? I know you taste like chalk and yet my stomach is telling me that it doesn’t matter — we can handle a little chalk. We can handle a little stealing. People on TLC eat chalk and swipe swag all the time.

Ah, ok. I’m hungry. That’s what’s happening.

But I’m lazy. I’m too lazy to walk to get food right now, and it’s cold and my shoes give me pinch-y toes. The restaurant I’m in the mood for is not on Seamless, and besides, I don’t want to be dramatic by being “that girl” who orders early so that her food arrives at 12:00 p.m. on the dot.

I’ve been that girl, and she/us/we are always hungry again by 3.

Now I’m watching the clock. The clock is acting like it didn’t have protein this morning, either. Does that even work, by way? The whole eat-protein-feel-like-a-queen thing? I’d ask Scone Samantha but she’s taking a ten hour sabbatical or something. Bet she “forgets to eat lunch” when she comes back.

Not me. It’s 12. I’m ordering.

“Hey are you ordering food?” The girl who sits across from me just asked that.

“Yeaa…..” I respond. “What should we get?”

You psychopath, I scold myself, why did you ask that? Now you’re locked into a lunch marriage and divorce is not an option. But it’s too late. Office etiquette.

She’s in the mood for sushi. I’m not. Actually, I am, but I’m being cheap since I’m ordering for two now.

She could do a salad, but then I’d have to check off all her ingredients in addition to mine.

She could do a burger (oh could she now?), or a burrito, and she suggested a salad again with a laugh like she was joking but I know she meant it.

Ok. She saw fangs growing out of my eyeballs and told me to just “get her whatever” so now she’s getting what I’m getting and that means not kale. Omelettes win.

Thirty minute wait? I should have ordered sooner.

Now Scone Samantha is back — so nice of you to join us! — and that sneaky, sneaky traitor got lunch.

She motions to her scone. “I’m not going to finish this. Do you want it?”

The nerve. Can you imagine?!

I can’t, so I eat it. And then my food comes.

“Hey,” my roommate texts me about five minutes later. “I’m hungry. What should we do for dinner?”

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