I’m feeling a bit under the weather today.
My officemate, who is perfect in all ways — even down to her three perfect triplet boys and her perfectly matched outfits and her perfectly packed healthy lunches and her perfect balance of work, life, church, husband, children, friends, health and shopping — is determined to not have my sickness interrupt her perfect life. And to that end, she’s forcing me to drink a — well, a JUG — of carrot juice this morning.
Image courtesy of Flickr user Joan Thewlis.
And I’m not just saying that out of petulance. I love my officemate, despite her unimperfections. The stuff is horrendous. It’s thick, slimy and unappetizingly vegetal, with a smell like a rancid, untended community garden. My officemate disagrees.
“Cindy, this smells like the bottom of a produce bin…ugh. It smells like dirt and old vegetables,” I whine.
“That’s what ‘good for you’ smells like,” she snaps back.
“The smell of ‘good for me’ smells like potato rot. What’s in this, anyway?”
“Just carrots? It tastes like it has dirt in it. And lima beans.”
A long, annoyed pause. “JUST CARROTS.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She gets up from her desk and brings the glass container over to me, its interior coated with the coarse, orange flesh of the carrots like a landmine took out an entire carrot party, the carnage splattered disgustingly on the walls.
“Damn, look at the bottle, girl… Ingredients: ‘carrots.’ See? But for you, I’m gonna make it extra easy to understand…”
She then takes a Sharpie and writes in big black letters on the bottle, “CARROTS, FOOL. Now drink your damn juice.” And huffs off back to her desk, as I reluctantly begin gulping the sludge down again.
Tough love. Works every time.