When I met my husband, I was very clear there are three rules for ensuring the continuity of my naturally easy-going nature; never let me be tired, hungry or hot. My husband may have silently added to this list over time, though I’m sure he’s too “polite” to say so out loud.
One morning when I was a young teen and in Australia as an ambassador with the People-to-People Student Ambassadors Program representing the United States, all the conditions were right for me to have a spectacular meltdown. The night before this meltdown occurred, our group leader kicked us out of our hotel room. The reasons for this are still unclear to me, but the result was our group not being allowed back into our room until after 3 a.m.
Yes, I’m facetiously sure it was completely safe for unsupervised teens to be roaming around a resort in a foreign country unattended while our bus driver got drunk at the hotel bar, but I digress.
As we were supposed to be leaving for another city that morning, I was rudely awakened less than four hours after getting back into our hotel room by a wake-up call from another member of our group who happened to notice no one from our room made it down to breakfast. Suddenly, my roommates and I were jumping up and throwing items inside our suitcases “Home Alone” style. Forget having breakfast!
By the time lunchtime rolled around and our bus finally pulled over at a gas station to break bread, I was not only tired, I was hot and ravenously hungry from having my breakfast withheld. Clearly the perfect storm was a ‘brewing.
Being a girl who obviously likes to eat, I exited the bus eager to find out what was for lunch that day.
We lined up alphabetically by our last names, and as mine started with a W, I found myself last in line, just like in grades K-12. Two Australian “gentleman” were standing at the head of the line handing out sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic.
[I should preface the following by mentioning Australians love to play practical jokes, especially on unsuspecting Americans. At the time, I honestly felt they were picking on me and I was in absolutely no mood for the joke to be on me.]
I will never forget the way the guy who handed me my sandwich that day grinned as he said, “I guess you’re the lucky one today.”
Lucky one? Really?
I looked down at the sandwich in my hand and felt my stomach instantly recoil.
Throughout our stay we were handed many a salad sandwich and all of them were awful. I’m sorry Australia, I really am, as I realize now this sandwich is considered a special treat in your country but come on y’all! No one in their right mind piles salad mix between two slices of bread along with carrots, cucumbers, onions, and whatever else you may or may not find in an American salad bowl, absent any meat, and has the nerve to call it a “sandwich.”
And my sandwich? I looked down at my sandwich and saw mushy purple bread with blobs of yellow sticking out randomly from around the bread’s edges. I watched in disassociated horror as my hands unwrapped the magenta looking terror, pulled back the soggy top slice of bread and uncovered an angry looking, thick slab of beet glaring up at me like a giant, malevolent eye bathing in a veritable ocean of mustard, a condiment I find as loathsome as horse radish or tartar sauce. Shredded carrots, onions, and bits of some type of leafy, plant-like substance I strongly suspect of being Kale dripped off the slice of bread I held in my hand in vile chunks as I looked up at the smiling faces of the men who had given it to me, my stomach grumbling loudly in the ensuing silence.
Without saying a word to them, I turned and began going through the farce of trying to find someone to trade with me but of course no one wanted to be the “lucky one.” As I continued through this useless charade, I became aware the two Australians were watching my lack of success with glee and laughing about it.
Reaching my boiling point, I gathered the sandwich back together, marched straight over to the two laughing buffoons and threw my sandwich at their feet. Their smiles changed to open mouth surprise as I turned on my heel and continued my march straight into the gas station, the sound of the beet’s satisfying splat as it smacked the pavement still echoing in my ears, as I thought to myself; I got your lucky one right here mates.
I went right over to the candy aisle and bought myself a pound of Rollo’s which I took back to the bus, ate in front of everyone and shared with no one. I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit I took great delight in denying Rollo’s to anyone who refused to trade their sandwich with me.
Hindsight being 20/20, I of course could have handled the situation in a more magnanimous manner. Maybe I could have behaved in a way less befitting of causing an international stir — or at least in a way less reminiscent of a toddler’s temper tantrum. I didn’t know then, but when they said “lucky one” they truly meant it — apparently the beet salad sandwich is the most coveted of all the disgusting variations of the salad sandwich. Whoops!