Guilt-free Fast Food

            Last week our van died in the rain about four miles from our home.  For months now we’ve been holding our breath trying to keep the old hog together.  We’ve even kept it off the highways in the last two years, hoping slower speeds would extend its life.  Our mechanic strongly suggested we get rid of it three years ago, but with the recession affecting our family, buying a new vehicle was not possible.  So, last week I actually advocated selling it for scrap; my husband cast the dissenting vote, then John came along.  

            John is our neighbor’s friend.  Apparently, he needed assistance writing his resume and asked us for help.  I thought to myself, “How hard can it be to help an eighteen year old man write a resume?” So, I agreed.  While typing out his information he asked me if our van was broken down.  When I told him it was probably down for the count, he perked up and said, “You’re helping me, here’s a way I can help you.  I’ve got good mechanic connections.”  I thought my small offer of help was not big deal, but John was very appreciative.  

Just two days later he came back with his “connection” to look at our van.  While we were talking back and forth, he told his friend, “Hey, you know Dorothy is the kind of mother that other mother should be like.”  I don’t think he was just buttering me up; he was sincerely appreciative that I had set aside what I was doing to help him.  He had moved out of his home when he was thirteen.  His voice and demeanor were filled with bravado, but he was hungry for some more senior adult attention.  It turns out he was married at eighteen and feels strongly about fidelity.  

“Hey Dorothy”, he said grinning widely, “Happy twenty-fifth anniversary!” 

“Thank you,” I said, smiling; it wasn’t quite the day (October 24), but no matter.

 
            Today, I did not cook any meals, with the distraction of both homework (mid-terms are approaching), and dealing with the car, not to mention running to the veterinarian first thing and schlepping my daughter to work.  Before I took off, I informed my husband, “You want an Egg McMuffin.”  Brian raised no fuss.  After driving Candace to work I swung by McDonalds.  Now, I kept my head and chose something healthy.  I can actually logic out why an occasional Egg McMuffin is just fine.  It consists of English muffin, cheese, Canadian bacon and an egg.  Not only does it taste fab, it reminds me of being a little girl again.  Any forty-six-year old needs to occasionally raise some childhood memories from the days when life was worriless and carefree.  Other than that, I really wanted one.