/ Oregon Trail Mix

I enjoy few things more than exploring corporate lunchroom behavior and culture, but not when I'M the subject, not when I'M the victim. This week, I have pledged not to eat at all for the rest of the week, meaning today and tomorrow, but am foiled by the instincts of someone whose life was clearly changed by watching Bruce Springsteen pass the mic on to Kenny Loggins in 1984 FOR THE CHILDREN, BECAUSE WE ARE THE CHILDREN. Or was it Joe Cocker? I refuse to believe that Bryan Adams was old enough to have performed at Live Aid (or was it Band Aid?), and yet, every day that I show up to work determined ANEW not to stick anything into my mouth, a certain co-worker moseys by during the noontime hour (technically TWO hours where I work) and brings me food. She double-orders her favorite dish at the local noodle soup joint, and then puts half in a bowl for me, even when I assure her that I have already eaten, or am CURRENTLY eating or have come down with Columbia River dysentery, and I point this out by demonstrating my stages on the Bristol Stool Chart. That last part may not be true, as I might be confusing it with my first disastrous Oregon Trail wagon train campaign (I HAD LITTLE CASH, BUT WAS HIGHLY SKILLED IN CARING FOR MAH OXEN).

So why do I continue to eat the food that she gives me? Is it because I lacked in maternal affection and see this opportunity as the teat of a childhood lost? Is it because I have tangled her in my web of deceit? Is it because she is hot?

If I ever say no to a pretty face, may it send me on the Oregon Trail to hell.