Le Vending Machine

So my mom used to prepare my lunch in middle school. Then I got to college and my Pony Express card magically produced a plate heaping with warm food from the questionable cafeteria, aptly called “Café.” Let’s just call it what it really is okay. It’s a cafeteria complete with hairnets and steel serving-spoons wedged inside amorphous casseroles. Then came the egregiously happy lunch lady at the sorority house. Beaming every day with the one goal to “strengthen your bones” aka cook every Mexican dish oozing with cheese in the books. Then there’s the real nightmare. You have to actually start cooking for yourself when you get home from work. And when I say “cook,” I really mean that a man named George who owns a grill and a cold-looking microwave start to look like your two new best friends. You now know which button to press for every conceivable frozen dinner at the grocery store. The vending machine at work also starts call your name around 4 in the afternoon. You’ve even convinced yourself that gummi bears are a sort of vitamin source. A4 $.75. Wow.