i found it. i told you i did. wow, it is lame. but it is definitely something written by little old me. 5+ years ago. i don’t think i’ve changed a whole lot.
anywho. here it is.
It’s true. I probably bought more cinnamon bears than I should have. Two pounds. But I thought I was justified in my purchase. We had all talked about buying cinnamon bears at the BYU bookstore. Amanda, Ali, Marisa, me. We all wanted some. But when we got there, everyone bailed. So I bought two pounds, knowing that they’d all want some later.
Turns out, they didn’t want that many. Ali and Amanda and Marisa only ate a couple cinnamon bears before lunch on Saturday. And I ate some as I drove to SLC on Monday morning. (I realized as I left Provo at 11:30 that I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day, that my hunger pangs were real and justified.)
By the time I arrived in Denver, I still had almost two pounds of cinnamon bears left, still hadn’t eaten anything real that day, and had what was supposed to be ten minutes before my plane started boarding. I had a decision to make.
So I had a little conversation with myself on the subject.
Alyce: I’m hungry.
Self: So get something to eat. There’s a Wolfgang Puck Express right there. You love their butternut squash soup.
Alyce: I don’t have time to go there. The line weaves all the way into the middle of the concourse.
Self: I think it’s technically called a terminal at this airport.
Alyce: Whatever, Self, you know what I’m saying. In fact, there seem to be lines everywhere.
Self: Not at Domino’s.
Alyce: I might as well just eat cinnamon bears for all the nutrition I’d get out of a Domino’s pizza.
Self: Oooh, good point. But what will people think if they see you standing there with your hands in two pounds of cinnamon bears?
Alyce: Mmm, better point. I’ll go to Domino’s.
When I got to B39 with personal pepperoni pizza in hand, I learned that my plane was delayed. And that the flight after mine had been canceled and most of the passengers from that flight were trying to get on mine. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t find a place to sit. So I stood in the middle of a mildly agitated crowd with my hands in a pizza box.
Guess folks didn’t have much to do
at the gate
while waiting to learn of
their flying fate
because many of them kept looking at me
while I ate.
(And yes, I was licking the grease off my fingers. I know you were wondering.) What were the expressions on the faces of my onlookers? Disdain? Envy? I couldn’t tell. However, it was clear that the looks weren’t friendly.
I licked my thumb one last time and contemplated my situation.
Alyce: Well, I’m not hungry anymore.
Self: That’s good.
Alyce: I do have this terrible taste in my mouth, though.
Self: Like you just ate a Domino’s pizza?
Self: That’s not so good.
Alyce: Nope. What should I do about it?
Self: Don’t you have some cinnamon bears in your carry-on?
Self: I think you know what to do.
Little did I know how that little decision – to cleanse my poor palette – would change things at B39. The very moment I opened my BYU Bookstore bag of chewy and cinnamon-y goodness, the unfriendly faces disappeared. I had friends. I was having conversations.
“Oooh, don’t those look good,” they said. “Cinnamon bears. What a great idea.”
“They are tasty. Would you like some?” I held out the open bag.
“Oh no, no. I better not. But I bet you’re enjoying them.”
“I am. I like cinnamon bears.”
Before I knew it, we were boarding. I bit into a bear head as I passed a woman boarding in a later group. She was beautiful. Her short, gray, professionally-styled hair framed her face. Her eyes were bright. She smiled at me.
“Oh, those look delicious. How tempting,” she breathed.
“Please. Have some.”
“I shouldn’t. But thank you.”
“No problem. Maybe next time.”
By now, I’d eaten more bears than I cared to count and was feeling a little sick. I had to stop. I took out three bears and put the rest away. I was eating the first when I stepped onto the plane. The male flight attendant who greeted me asked if I was feeling generous. I opened my hand and held it out to him. I couldn’t help but think of the end of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” as I offered him one of my last two cinnamon bears.
“I couldn’t take one of your last ones,” he said.
“I have a whole bag in my bag. Please have one.”
“Ok, I’m in 24A, so just let me know.”
And then, for the duration of the three-and-a-half hour flight to Dulles, Mr. Flight Attendant never looked my way as he passed row 24. He never said hi again. Never asked for his cinnamon bear.
I think it’s because he couldn’t see them.