Thursday, November 3, 2011
Rhonda Nelson Confesses
Y’all, I have something to tell you and I’m not proud of it.
For the most part, I think I’m an easy-going, kind-hearted and generous person. I’m quick to share my time, to take a meal when others are sick, to offer a word of encouragement. I donate to various charities, can’t walk past the Salvation Army buckets at Christmastime without feeling guilty, even if I’ve already given that day. According to the abbreviated version of the Myers-Brigg’s test my personality type is called “The Nurturer.”
Given that, one would think that I wouldn’t be stingy about anything, right? And yet, I am, y’all. When it comes to one thing, I completely lose my cool and any sense of sharing, even with those I love, those I care about.
And you know what that thing is? It’s…French Fries.
*hangs head in shame*
Yes, you read that right. It’s French Fries. I would gladly give the shoes off my feet to a total stranger if they needed them, but you let a friend or loved one try to sneak a French Fry from my plate and I become stingy, greasy-fingered b*tch. Seriously. I’m horrible! It’s not like I’m going to eat all the fries, or I’m in danger of starvation, or am never going to get another French Fry.
So…why? What is it about French Fries, of all things, that bring out the absolute worst in me? What does it matter if someone gets one measly fry?