The Tale of Grace and the Sandwich

There I was, innocently sitting in front of the biggest, fattest, bad-assest sandwich I'd seen in a long time: a triple-decker of lettuce, bacon and tomato. Madness. It was all Terribly Exciting considering that I'd spent about 20 minutes indecisively scanning through the menu for a sign that would help me decide which item to pick [such as an arrow, or a little speech bubble with the words: "Grace, pick me!"] [if you're wondering, that Sign from Heaven never appeared]. It was also all Terribly Daunting considering that I suddenly had a feeling that the width of the sandwich wouldn't fit into my mouth.

However, I've never been one to shirk away from challenges, so I courageously picked up my knife and fork and started hacking, I mean, slicing away at the stacker. It took me only a few seconds to realize that I was getting nowhere. The various layers of my sandwich were all in disarray, the lettuce escaping from the sides, and on my fork, only a thin little piece of bread and bacon had been unable to avoid capture. I looked sadly at my fork, glared at the lettuce, and sighed at the huge sandwich still to be finished. This Would Not Do.

But was I Defeated? No. God had in His wisdom had created us with our own sets of hands and knives. Picking up the sandwich with my hands (which wasn't as easy as typing out this sentence was), I took a huge bite - almost to gag it out. In my hunger, I'd overeagerly miscalculated the angle at which I'd shoved the sandwich into my mouth, and its triangular point had brutely shoved its way to the back of my throat, tickling what should never be tickled. Hurridly, I grabbed my serviette, so that my companion wouldn't be faced with the sight of the previous two seconds going through a rapid rewind. It would be this moment, that the waiter would come past to ask: "Is everything okay?"

"No, I'm busy choking to death behind this serviette while my friend's dying of laughter next to me" I would've said if I hadn't had a mouthful of BLT in my mouth. Instead, I waved my serviette weakly at him, and gave him a thumbs up. Luckily, he moved on to trap his next victim mid-chew, allowing me to desperately do some Room Control in my mouth.

Fortunately, by the age of 22, I'd had much practice in the practice of gross motor movements, even ones as complicated as the ones I was going to have to engage in to ensure that the contents of my mouth weren't about to become familiar to the rest of the restaurant. After some intense chewing and eye rolling and vigorous movements, I'd managed to find enough space for everything comfortably. Bit by bit, bite by bite, and then: gone. Encouraged by my success, I looked again at my sandwich, by this time looking less and less like a indefatigable mountain, and more like a overarrogant molehill. "I can do this!", I thought. And by the end of the evening, only the plate lived to tell the tale: a sad little site of crumbs, lettuce sheds, and the occasional smear of sauce.

Moral of the story:
1) Man does not live on bread alone, but I bet you it'd be easier to eat politely if he did.
2) Persevere, for the goal is worthy.
3) Only eat out with those who are good friends, or those who are on their way to becoming so.
4) There's no reason to act like a Philistine when eating out, but neither is there no need to be a Pharisee.