Having emerged victoriously from our recent visit to Wendy's, I allowed my child to talk me into another. The outcome of this episode was quite different.
There weren't many people in the restaurant, and I felt uninspired to spread the word about the evils of fast food this time. I quietly stood in line, spacing out.
There's something I do on those rare occasions when I visit restaurants these days. I look around at the clientel. Mind you, the only establishments I set foot into now are Chuck. E. Cheese and, of course, Wendy's. But I enjoy looking around at the waistlines of my fellow indulgers, and try to use the information gleaned from such observation to see to it that much time passes before my next visit. Am I making sense?
But this time I was stopped in my tracks. My eyes locked onto a pale man whose hands and face looked bloated. His movements were painfully slow. I know the look. I have seen it before.
He was trying to enjoy a Frosty. It took all of his effort to bring the plastic spoon to his mouth.
I know the look. I've seen it before, in my mother and grandmother, before they succumbed.
This could be his last meal in a restaurant. It could be that the only food which appeals to him is a Wendy's Frosty. This outing undoubtedly means a great deal to him and his companion.
What thoughts occupied his mind? What did he see as he looked about the restaurant? Did he see the need to rant about trans fat?
I wanted to see through his eyes, the eyes of someone who knows how to appreciate. I wanted his perspective, without paying such a dear price.