Hangry

Sometimes my hangry has no chill.

After doing some powerful, sweaty yoga with Angelo this morning we went to get Korean food for lunch. I think it is safe to describe us as starving and near death post-yoga.

Strike one occurs when Angelo picks the menu item I had my eyes upon, the japchae noodles. Because you can't order the same dish, right? (No, you can't. My mom hates that I do this.) So I order the still ever-delicious bibimbap. Good. Fine.

Strike two is when Angelo's food can come with a "gluten free option." I ask him if he will get this (for my sake.) He says no.

Strike three is when the bibimbap arrives piping hot in a stone bowl. I stir it a few times. Steam billows out with every new turn of the food. Using my slippery metal chopsticks I struggle to get more than a single piece of zucchini and three grains of rice into each bite. I am like Tantalus of Greek mythology, condemned to eternal hunger with food before me, just out of reach. Usually adept with chopsticks--thank you very much--I could not use the leverage of the side of my bowl because it was too dang hot to touch. I switch to a fork.

But now each steaming forkful is too dang hot to go into my mouth. So I sit there scowling, blowing on each bite to bring it a touch down from scalding. I'm so hungry I just want to scarf down the whole thing that I get angry because, really, I wanted the normal temperature japchae noodles to begin with which makes me even angrier because what a dumb reason to be mad; I didn't order the food I wanted because my boyfriend picked it first and the only problem with the food I did pick is that I have to blow on it a few times before each bite.

The hanger takes over us all sometimes.


Ok, but really they shouldn't have metal chopsticks. No grip on those things.