Panic at the drive thru

Last night, on our way home from the movies, the Professor mentioned a craving for french fries. So, being the excellent husband, I pulled into Wendy's to fulfill her want. Rolled up to the outdoor station. Commented on how long it had been since visiting a drive thru.

Then I panicked.

"What can I get you?" the voice asked.

Maybe I'm just rusty with the whole drive thru experience, but that little question seemed to hold an enormous amount of weight. What could they get me? They were offering the world, and all I wanted was a sleeve of fried potatoes.

Seemed like kind of a waste.

My eyes scanned the plastic illuminated menu. I needed to find something else to order. Hamburgers. Salads. Chicken fingers. It was so overwhelming.

"I'll get a medium fries . . . and a chili," I eventually said.

A chili? Why the hell did I order chili? I looked over to the Prof, who gave me an odd look. My face contorted in a I don't know why I said chili either! kind of way. It was just there, on the board, directly under french fries.

We pulled around to the window. I almost gave back the chili. Truth was I didn't want it. But I guess I thought pulling up to a drive thru to get an order of fries wouldn't seem like enough. The kid working didn't seem like much of a talker, though, so I just took the chili and paid my $3.50 or whatever the total came to.

My stomach ached all night from that stuff.