Something happens to me every. single. day. Right around one in the afternoon, some sort of feverish craving grips me. I get crabby as an old bear, concentration flies right out that window over my desk, a light drool forms in the corner of my mouth . . . and the phone rings. I have to answer it – and be professional, more’s the pity.
Good afternoon, may I help you?
That’s what they hear.
Whaddya want? I’m hungry, can’t you understand that?? DON’T TALK TO ME!
That’s what my brain is trying to get past my lips.
My tummy is screaming at me too – not one to just mutter and growl, it lets me know in no uncertain terms that I have neglected it for too long. So sometimes, just to teach it who’s boss, I make it wait until 1:30. Mother used to say I’d cut my nose off to spite my face. What does she know!!
These lunch breaks may break me yet. Maybe I should just nibble all day instead.