So a few nights ago I was working at the ice cream shop. A grandmother brought in her two little girls, and the older one ordered the flavor called Chocolate Therapy. Seeing this, the younger one also ordered Chocolate Therapy, to which the grandmother (who had the best, bright red blow-out since David Bowie), gasped and said, “Why, I didn’t know you were a chocolate therapy girl!” The little sister seemed to read a pejorative meaning into the exclamation (shame on you grandma!) and so, thinking I’d be helping, I whispered huskily over the counter, “I, too, am a chocolate therapy girl.”
And no one called the police! I was stunned but, also, I know how to gamble with eccentrics. You see, I recognized the girl’s clothing as dance studio clothing, and the grandmother had on more silver rings than all seven dwarfs (read: she was either a villain queen, a drag queen, or both). They weren’t the starched breed of customers you’ve got to act sort of dumb around, or else they grow panicky. They were civilized and kind and ready to sing songs with me.
But my confession: I am not a chocolate therapy girl at all. I am actually allergic to ice cream. Eating it would do the opposite of therapy. I am so glad they didn’t make me prove it.
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