Can I Get a Good Grief?

I just went to the cafeteria. I figured a little sustenance would make me feel better. You know, something get me through this latest bout of weltschmerz which is occasionally peppered with moments of sheer terror.

I couldn't fake a smile for anyone in the elevator ride, nor the corridors, and I was simply hoping that the 1 pm lunch rush had subsided so that I could get in and out of there with the least bit of annoyance.

Salivating at the salad bar was a giant woman with a tiny head. She had a short grey pixie cut and a pinched face. She was loud and demanding to know what was being refilled into the special salad station chafing dish.

Eggplant parmasean, apparently, so the conversation went between her and the attendant.

More hovering.

She grabbed the spoon, and started tapping it on the side of the dish. That's when I noticed her thick black mustache.

Good god.

Tap tap tap went the spoon, to get the old eggplant parmesean off the spoon so she could dig into the new.

That's when I noticed her enormous cans. They were at her knees, at a kickable level. No proper support.

And then there's the machine made bright blue cardian sweater with the kittens on it, and the text that wrapped around the back of it that read A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT IS A CAT...

tap tap tap

At first I was enlightened by the sight of this person, happy that I don't have that mustache, those tits, that sweater. But then I realized I could quite possibly be looking at my future.

She didn't end up getting the eggplant parmasean. And I've also lost my appetite.