No Candles To Blow Out

I like to plan things...

Birthday parties.

Church events.

Nail polish colors to match the season.

The weather. (Wait, what?)

This week I decided to plan out all of my evening meals and make just one productive trip to the grocery store. I feel like I was actually teetering somewhere between Betty Homemaker and Rachel Ray, except without a raspy voice and any real epic cooking skills. But like Mindilicious has always said, it's the effort that counts. And let's be honest, me and my shopping cart, list of groceries, and planned meals were really putting forth a solid effort.

I even made it through the store without any real incident. Forget the fact that I almost ran over a small child in the produce aisle. In my defense though, he did try to get in between me and my ginger root. What was I supposed to do?

As I was loading my groceries into the car in the parking lot, a man was walking to his car carrying a fresh cake from the bakery. He walked over to his old Chevy Cavalier and began to get into the drivers seat. As I was setting the last bag down, I heard a loud "Ahhrgha" from the man with the cake, in the car parked across the row from me. I turned to look. Because let's be honest, when you hear a grunting "Ahhrgha" you can't help but look. It's like a car crash. Who really turns their eyes from that? No one. And if they say they do, they're lying. And they should not be trusted. And maybe they should even be fed to the dogs.

Anyway.

The man, as he was getting into his car, dumped his entire cake on his lap. So there he sat, in his beaten down car, with a sheet cake adorning his lap. While my first instinct was to laugh, I immediately felt a tinge of pain in my heart for this man. I don't know why exactly. But something inside of me knew that spilling this cake was probably a big deal; an almost deflating blow for him.

As I sat in my car for a good 5 minutes, watching this whole thing happen from my drivers side mirror, I was at a loss for what I should do. I wanted to help. But what was I going to do- go over and help him scoop chocolate layered cake from his crotch. I mean- I'm friendly. But not that friendly. Then I thought... should I go buy him a new one? But if I did... what flavor was it? If I got chocolate, maybe there would be an allergy? And what about the words on top? How was I to know who's name should glisten across the top of the butter cream frosting?

So what did I do?

I sat there in my car, just watching. I prayed that this incident not be a defining moment for this man. But as for action- I didn't do anything. After a few more minutes I drove away. Feeling terrible. I still feel terrible. And I'm willing to bet that in even 4 days from now I will feel terrible.

So to the man in the old Cavalier with the cake on your lap,

I'm sorry I didn't do anything. I promise that next time I witness such an event, I will buy the cake. I'll even have them write something like... "A Cake With a Story Tastes Better Anyway," just to make you smile. I hope you can forgive me.

Love,

Emily