Goin' South

One of them was eaten by hill people

 
"Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's need, but not every man's greed."

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

I really thought it was time to settle back into a normal routine. I finally adjusted to being back in the states and was very seriously somewhat kinda considering starting to think about looking for non-couch-based housing again. Then a warm breeze gusted open the lovely curtains at my friend's apartment, rousing me from my squatter slumber and ruining an otherwise glorious mid-week, mid-afternoon nap. Despite the spike in mercury a chill crept down my spine. The snow had melted. Flowers, re-awakened. My post-travel recovery coma was in danger, for Father Time had marched forward and Wedding Season was upon me.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love weddings, but my constitution is that of a jellyfish, my willpower non-existent. "Another Long Island Iced Tea?" Why yes please. "Porterhouse steak with a red wine demi-glaze and frites?" Don't mind if I do. "Stay up for four straight days making it rain all over this hotel, dropping down science on how we wreck every establishment dumb enough to let us forfeit a security deposit in lieu of being responsible?" You betcha. The first thing to go at any nuptial celebraccion is my 85% veganism. And my friends find no end in teasing me as to this point.

This latest wedding trip took me down to St. Thomas to rock out with my Crocs out down Caribbean way. The first mettle-testing treat came into view well before I even got to the ceremony; for anyone who has ever been to the A Terminal of the Atlanta airport knows all too well the gravitational draw that is Chick-Fil-A. My bagel-centric northeast lifestyle affords me few opportunities to go Cowboy and get down to Chick-Fil-A territory, or as I like to call it, "the promised land," so I actively schedule flights through Atlanta with enough of a layover to get me some chicken biscuit action. I'm not saying I've ever added in a stopover through Atlanta when I could've easily flown direct, but I'm not saying I wouldn't consider it.

Anyways, my vegan guilt was nipping at my frontal lobe and begging me to get back to eating well again, so I put the buttery goodness of chicken biscuits out of mind and patted myself aggressively on my proverbial back. Job well done, I prematurely boasted. My flight was off in a different terminal anyways so there was no real chance of me getting pulled into the black hole of failure. So I took my time, wandering lazily over to my gate, only to arrive and find that due to weather issues in Florida they moved my plane...back to the A terminal...shouting distance from the Chick-Fil-A. Ruh roh.

Still convinced I was strong enough to make it through without caving at Mile One of this ill-fated self-restraint marathon, I busted a move over to the gate to catch my flight and get out of the danger zone before it was too late. Panting and short of breath, I charged past the precious and powered through a crowd to get onto my plane to paradise and away from dark, sexy temptation. In the comic timing that only the universe itself can design, my thunderous arrival coincided perfectly with the Delta rep hopping on the horn, announcing sorrowfully that "due to weather issues in Florida, we have moved back the departure time...three hours." Me and my half-assed veganism were screwed.

Accepting my fate as a lapsed health nut, I ambled over to the terminal map to find exactly where my Christian chicken joint was hiding and panicked when I didn't see it on the board. I read and re-read the directory, angrily scanning the Food Services list over and over again to find my way home. My irascible chicken lust turned my quest of inconvenience into a full on manhunt, and I opted to just run up and down the hallways hoping to spot the Chick-Fil-A logo. Each foot fell effortlessly forward, pulling me knowingly towards my prize. I moved independent of thought or want, my automation driven by the sole and unified purpose of savoring that chicken biscuity goodness. Seconds felt like eternities, but I could smell that I was closing in, and then....nirvana!

I brushed past an indecisive mid-westerner debating between chicken and spicy chicken, and with hands trembling asked the nice lady for a chicken biscuit. "Sorry hun, breakfast ended 30 minutes ago." I was crushed. Devastated. Breakfast had passed, and with it all hope of biscuit. Forced to settle for the basic Chick-Fil-A chick-fil-a sandwich, I reassured myself that even without the biscuit, this mid-morning lunch was still a brag-worthy event, so I sent out some taunting text messages to fellow chicken lovers alerting them of my accomplishments. Sneaking off to a nearby seating area, I hunkered down and plowed through that sandwich with a determination bordering on frenzy. Each carefully lain pickle danced with the lightly breaded fillet and quickly flooded my neuroreceptors with massive amounts of soul-soothing serotonin. Greasy and satisfied, only then did I notice I hadn't snagged any napkins whilst scoring my sandwich.

No matter. The receipt would do.