You know how it’s a bit of a trope for the sad, single girl/gay to flop down next to their best friend (usually the main character with a love interest half-developed by now) and say, “I’ve got a date tonight with my two favorite men! Ben…and Jerry!” And we all laugh at the simmering hilarity that is self-indulgent, sugary melancholy?
Well for the first time (and probably the only time) in my life, I get to say that line without it being regurgitated rom-com garbage! Because–and this is where you lean in real close to your monitor because you sense a punchline and you don’t want to miss it–I am literally working the closing shift at a Ben & Jerry’s tonight.
Isn’t that so literal? Probably one of the few time the word literal has butted up against a phrase that houses literal literality.
Working in an ice cream shop is very elucidating experience. Potential posts on the insights available to me–particularly about people, self-denial and the perversion of pleasure in consumables–are probably legion. You simply learn a lot about humans when you are the only thing standing between them and something so seemingly innocuous as ice cream, yet so simultaneously taboo as long-denied treats. People shine through their armor when they’re hungry, and they shine the brightest when they’re close to being fed.
For instance, there is a huge difference between people who begin an order with “I’d like,” and “I need.” There are also people who look to me to decide for them, as though an objective verdict will negate the calories, and when I tell them that I won’t they become immediately distressed. There are the children, who are always hilarious even if they’re being a bit petulant, and there are the fanatics; these adults are hilarious too, but especially so when they’re being petulant.
People confess all sorts of things to me. I think it’s because I have the automated presence and pretense of a robot (a very cute and sparkly robot with what I’d like to think is a nicely muscular upper body). Sometimes I love it, like when someone goes on about their bad day and how much they’ve looked forward to the very moment I hand them a cone, and sometimes it’s very upsetting. More than a few times I’ve handed a customer something tremendously large, and they’ve whispered to me: “I’m lactose intolerant! Hehe!”
What am I supposed to do with this? It’s like selling someone mountain climbing rope and them saying, “This ought to take those hostages longer to saw through with their teeth!”
In actuality, I promptly end these lactose intolerance confessions by making a face that looks like I’ve just heard the best, naughtiest scandal. In a way, I have. Secretly though, on the inside, I am praying the person will be okay and that they live alone, without any cats or dogs.
Tonight, as I work the Valentines Night shift in a town center brimming with romantic little nooks for couples to glow in, I am sure I am also going to encounter swarms of solitary, embittered singles. And I’m wondering how many times I will endure the Sad-n’-Single punchline of: “This is my date today,” in its many forms. Considering the likelihood, I should probably prepare small quips of cheer for these people.
Or maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I already am, because instead of wallowing within themselves they’ve decided to wallow in my shop, and no small quip of cheer from me is gong to compare to what they’ve come in for, which is a date with their two favorite men.