Buffa-low

I hesitated at the fifth chicken finger. It was huge. And orange. But it's what I've come to expect from Windy City's signature menu item. I also expected it to be so delicious, which was the very reason why I was so conflicted at that moment. How fat do I want to be today? Just a little fat? Or extraordinarily fat? It wasn't a matter of space. Number five would fit with room to spare into the TakeAlong tupperware I had picked out especial. And it wasn't a matter of stomach girth. If the past week and a half had taught me anything, it's that R.P. McMurphy can suck down pounds of food in one sitting if provoked by people or special events or a varying degree of depression. It all came down to whether or not I wanted to experience a regrettable afternoon.

I decided to go the road less fat, and placed the fifth glowing finger back in it's glistening orange tub. And the tub went back into the refrigerator, wedged in between several other engorging items left over from a birthday week feeding frenzy. The lid snapped tight, the container placed in the lunch bag, and it was done. As if attempting to hide all indiscretion to my diet, I quickly piled on fare like an apple, a banana, CARROT STICKS, a Kellogg's breakfast bar.

"Did he notice? ...I don't think so. Let's just zip this up slowly."

I knew it wouldn't be long however until I was face to face again with the fowl offenders: dipped, battered, buttered, lathered, coated, breaded, fried, SERVED. The mouth watered at the thought, like Homer Simpson deprived of...well, anything. It's silly to think of, but the man tells an honest tale.

Lunch came and went with a mixed amount of fanfare. Almost always someone points out the use of the toaster oven. From my experience, most office lunches tend to be fridge-direct or, at their most complex, microwaved into another state entirely. But buffalo tenders cause a ruckus, or however much of a ruckus can be kicked up in a business setting. Beyond the use of the mostly still kitchen appliance, the pungency of the buffalo permeates the entire office space. And like gophers coworkers would emerge and inquire. I made myself scarce to avoid such situations. The items in question were taken back to my cube-space and inhaled outright quicker than the reheating. My innards put up little fuss, and thankfully so.

Who can tell though what would have transpired with an additional meaty portion thrown down the hatch? My top three guesses were pain, guilt and retribution. With the day's foody drama behind me, what lay before me now was the greasy tub which I knew occupied a substantial portion of refrigerator real estate at home. My silent hope was that they would magically disappear. Because the next time we met, and we would meet again, I may not have that same hesitation.