We drove by the Super Buffet the other day, and debated whether it was a “mashed potatoes” or “magic panda” type of buffet. Of course, if it were mashed potatoes, then I think there’s an obligation to name it Smorgys! or something like that, so I’m fairly certain it’s Chinese. And unless you were raised during the depression and regard giant tubs of starches and meats simmering in oily pools (all you can eat!) as a desirable thing, you don’t eat at buffets. You just don’t. But, I can’t help but feel like I should try the Super Buffet, at least once. Like in the way that an adventurer would. Like Indiana Jones searching for the Ark of the Covenant, except instead of sampling exotic meats from a Cairo bazaar, I’d be eating in a strip mall next to Target.
Alas, I have yet to bring myself to eat at the Super Buffet. I tell myself that I’m not missing anything, that it’s just a glorified Panda Express (with endless rows of serving troughs filled with fried, doughy meat-balls soaking in sticky sugary sauces, and kept to just-above room temperatures by heat lamps). But to my way of thinking, the success of the Panda-franchise, is that guests are encouraged (by the lack of tables) to take their food home to eat in private and with an appropriate amount of shame, with the blinds closed.
But at a buffet, there you are, with God and everyone else watching you, judging you as you reach for a third napkin because the other two are saturated with oil (and you pray that this oil is coming from the food and not from the pores on your face, which are by this time probably weeping Wesson). And yes, the other patrons are judging you, and I know this to be fact because if it were me, I would judge others—although, maybe it’s more like the scenario of the only black guy at a conference seeing the only other black guy at a conference (this is Seattle, after all) and they give each other that “what’s up?” nod of acknowledgement. And yet, thank you very much, but no thank you; the buffet-fellowship is not a fraternity I want to join.
The frozen yogurt by-the-pound place, though… It feels different than a buffet somehow. Kind of like the difference between wearing sweatpants and yoga pants; one is giving up on life, and the other is fashionable. And it might only be because this frozen yogurt haven is located in downtown Seattle that it has tricked me into believing that it is normal to buy your dessert by the pound. After all, to be located in the heart of the business district suggests that patrons must include regular people who are doing just fine in life like Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, and not just the Joan Cusacks and Melanie Griffiths of the corporate world, which in Seattle translates into gay men (Joan) and receptionists (Melanie).
But here’s the thing: it’s more than just a place to get your sweet on. It’s more than just a destination when you need to get the fuck out of the office. It’s an opportunity to finally have control. All day long, I take it like a bitch. Like I’m the fucking prison bitch of my employers. “Oh, you have a master’s degree? Great, that means you can take meeting minutes; that’s a good use of your education.” “There was a project that would be perfect for you… except, you know what? I assigned it to someone with less skill but more seniority. Sorry; it’s not you, it’s just office politics.” But here in the land of re-purposed 7-11 Slurpee machines, I am finally in control! Like the survivor of childhood abuse, my voice can finally be heard, as proclaimed by my frozen yogurt-to-candies ratio.
Have you been to one of these places? There’s a wall of fro-yo options, spigots poised to deliver icy sweetness spilling into your little paper cup. After adding that perfunctory “grounding” layer of yogurt, I like to head to the topping bar. Toppings. The stuff dreams are made of. Now, given that this is the most important part of the place, you’d think they’d give you a lot more room to really root around, but nope, it’s just a counter that screams “after thought” with some containers of candies with plastic spoons sticking out of them (which no doubt were licked by some homeless person, or worse, a child, then stuck back in the candy…either way, you just got mouth herpes).
On this most recent outing/exercise in empowerment, I added white chocolate chips, toffee bits, peanut butter filled chocolate chunks, M&Ms, and marshmallow topping. Except, I didn’t want to add marshmallow directly onto the candies; I felt it needed another layer of yogurt to bring a balance of both flavor and color. Turning toward the nonfat vanilla dispenser, I found someone else already there. But, instead of waiting the seconds that it’d take for them to finish, I panicked, suddenly too embarrassed to be in that place a moment longer, and I reached for the nearest spigot: coffee flavor. Not that I’m anti-coffee. It’s just that… it didn’t go.
Didn’t go?? It’s not like there was a theme; it’s not like I thought, I’ll just do chocolate and marshmallow. It was more of a binge, of what can I add to this, and what else can I add?
But, embracing the moment like a true survivor, I proudly proceeded to the cashier (and her judgmental scale) with my bowl of yogurt-coated candies. I imagine that this is what Weight Watchers is like with the public weigh-in, each person their own private candy-vessel. But at least at Weight Watchers they don’t charge per pound. Or maybe they do? I really have no idea. Anyway, that day I was burdened with $5.23 of shame and frustration. It cost me $5.23 to remind myself of my unhappiness at work.
Dammit! No! Hold your head up high, I told myself. Own the day! This wasn’t any ordinary shitty day; this was My Shitty Day! Yogurt cup in hand, I returned to the office, daring anyone who noticed me to question the lengthy duration of my afternoon break or the wrist-bending heft of my fro-yo-by-the-pound purchase.