bury my heart at Chick-Fil-A

Ordinarily, leaving work 3 hours early would be a cause for celebration, but I wasn’t too thrilled about it yesterday. It was time for my annual blood test, and I was dreading it. I hate needles, I hate the drive to the grungy city where my doctor is located, and I hate waiting for the results.

Anyway, by the time I got there, I was drenched in sweat. (The A/C in my car has been broken for a while now, but $1000+ to replace it in a 12-year-old car? No thanks!) I was glad to get inside and discover that the hospital doesn’t skimp on the air conditioning. I signed in at reception and sat down with my book. I hadn’t even read two pages before they called my name.

Did I mention that I hate needles? Because my god, I fucking HATE needles. As soon as the nurse tied me off like a Trainspotting extra, I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t see the needle piercing the inside of my elbow. After she took what seemed like a Sparkletts’ jug full of blood, she untied the rubber tubing and said, “Okay, we’ll see you next week!”

I kept my eyes firmly shut. “Is the vial out of sight?”

“Uh…yes.”

I opened my eyes, thanked the nurse, and left.

The bloodletting left me feeling a little teary and lightheaded, so I figured I should get something to eat and rest for a bit before getting back on the freeway. Fortunately, there was a Chick-Fil-A just down the street. I needed to replenish my lost fluids with grease, lemonade, and Polynesian sauce.

“Welcome to Chick-Fil-A!” the freshly scrubbed teenage cashier said. “What may I get for you today?”

“I’ll have combo #5 [chicken nuggets and waffle fries], and can I get lemonade instead of a soft drink?”

“You absolutely may!” he said, beaming. He turned around to get my food, and I looked for wires but didn’t see any. Seriously, he seemed so genuinely THRILLED to help me that I figured he must be a Servbot.

When he placed the tray in front of me, I said, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure!”

I started to pick my tray up, and he gasped and said, “Oh, no, wait!” He rushed around the side of the counter and said, “Please, let me.”

Confused, I said, “Uh, okay,” and followed him to a table.

“Is this all right, ma’am?”

Ugh, the dreaded MA’AM.

“Sure, this is fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, my pleasure,” he said, and favoring me with another blinding smile, he returned to his post.

Okay, seriously, what the hell? Don’t get me wrong, it was nice dealing with a fast food employee that didn’t act like they were doing me a colossal favor taking my money and clogging my arteries, but the whole thing was more than a little Stepfordian. But whatever. I shrugged and reached down to pick up a nugget, and then I noticed the cotton ball, held to the crook of my arm with medical tape. I’m assuming that’s why he carried my tray for me, since I didn’t see anyone else get this special perk while I was sitting there.

I was curious about this company, so I did some research on Chick-Fil-A today while I was shirking my duties at work. Apparently, the company was started by a really religious dude who won’t allow any of the restaurants to be open on Sundays. Well, whatever; praise the Lord and pass the Polynesian sauce.

That shit's tasty.