Home > Real Life > A 5 on the Illness Communication Exaggeration Curve

A 5 on the Illness Communication Exaggeration Curve

“Now, that’s service,” I commented to myself, taking a long pull on my milkshake.

It was really a muttering, forced out by an impression that had struck me as the Sonic waitress skated away on her cute little size 8 roller blades. Maybe it’d just been too long since I’d eaten at Sonic, but something about the entire experience had been downright painless. But as I sat there, slippered feet propped up on a nearby bench (I’d been too lazy to put on real shoes), I tried to suss out why.

It’s probably safe to say that I was primed to enjoy the experience by my nice stroll down the street to get there, since the restaurant was only a minute away on foot. Would have been less if I had decided to cut through my backyard and cross over the border that my house shares with it. The place was built within a few years of our moving into the house, and had caused quite a ruckus. The first month or so, the place was over-flowing. People parked along the streets in my neighborhood and walked, since there was not a single opening at the many bays of the drive-in restaurant. Eventually, this was quashed with some opportunely placed No Parking signs, and I don’t know how people who didn’t live in the area kept up their walk-up business. But somehow, they did.

Of course, that was all years ago. This particular dusky Sunday had a half dozen cars parked for drive-in service, and the dozen tables for walk-ins were deserted. Except, of course, for me and my slippers. It occurred to me that maybe it was the service by a cute girl near my own age that prompted the sense of well-being, but that wasn’t entirely right either.

That brought to mind the nature of the ordering process, which had changed somewhat since the first time I’d ventured to the restaurant as a part of a gang of neighborhood boys. Being adventurous, when we were asked to give initials so that our identity might be tied to our order, some made up three-character strings, while one boy, with a fit of giggles, spelled out A-S-S. The server would have none of this rugrat’s antics and just kept right on going. Somehow, when the orders came around, no call was ever issued for “ass”.

However, in the order placed just minutes ago no initials had been required. It was a step that had not been missed in the process, likely due to my solitude, and served to make the actual lodging of an order somewhat more convenient. What made it more so, however, was the little credit card slider on the microphone used to order that allowed the card to never leave my hands, as had been necessary before they’d installed the contraptions, an event that went wholly unnoticed by myself.

Actually, as I sit here sniffling and hashing this out, it becomes clear that it was probably, quite simply, my illness. Firstly, this particular flavor of the common cold has the interesting effect of making me quite sedentary, so any opportunity to simply sit and be still was a welcome change. But also, the illness was the reason for my visit to Sonic: for one of their excellent milkshakes. My standard self-medication for when my body decides to give the lining of my throat a pink slip as a part of trying to fight an illness, I knew when I woke up that the day would end, one way or another, at Sonic.

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Categories: Real Life
  1. Grandma
    February 11, 2008 at 9:59 pm

    Sorry that you are under the weather, Hober. However, Sonic milkshakes have received a very fine recommendation, and I hope this milkshake did your throat a world of good.

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