In early October, I decided to make a return to Muncie for Homecoming and after having an extended conversation with a man who claimed to be a 1976 Ball State graduate, but that my friend Lillie insisted was actually a very dirty Muncie local, I made my way up to the bar to grab a drink. I happened to stand next to a very tall, very well-dressed, very attractive guy and, in what could only be described as a miracle, I managed to start a conversation without openly referencing any typefaces or ampersands, which is generally my go-to and, with the amount of excitement I exhibit toward those subjects, not necessarily a successful closer (although it somehow worked out well just this once). We didn't talk about fonts, but we did talk enough for me to give him my number and sincerely look forward to meeting up with him the following day.
The following day was Ball State's actual Homecoming and in fact, the only outfit that I had actually planned for my four day trip to Muncie was the one I would wear to tailgate -- although I feel as if I need to clarify that sentence. While it's phrasing appears as if I had planned out an actual outfit to wear for the event of meandering around a field in search for other familiar Cardinals dressed in Ball State attire, it truly means that the only thing I had planned to pack and actively wear was my fanny pack.
And, that is because my fanny pack is probably the coolest thing I own. It's tie-dyed with multiple hanging beads, has intricately embroidered psychedelic mirrors and, on more than one occasion, my brother has referred to it as looking like a Native American birthing pack. In short, it's the greatest.
Low key, this is the happiest I've ever looked in my entire life. I love Ball State. I love Homecoming. Please note how awesome my fanny pack is. (Also, please note that Jamison is so #deep/hipster that he wore a suit jacket to tailgate).
When I pulled my phone out of my fanny pack at the bar later that night, I had received a text from the guy I'd met the previous night.
"I'm at the bar," it read. "I'm the tall one!"
"Oh, good!," I happily replied back. "I'm the short one in high-waisted sweatpants and a fanny pack!"
I told my mother this story a few weeks ago while we were on a bike ride in Wompatuck State Park when she made a comment about my fanny pack being an interesting choice of attire. When I finished, the look she gave me was one I had only received once before after telling her a story about my life and the look very clearly meant "Because of your actions, I will never have grandchildren."
The following story is the only other time my mother has given me that look and I prefer to refer to it as "The Jamba Juice Incident."
I have recently discovered that my life is not a movie.
Of course, I've known this forever, but hasn't everyone always secretly entertained the idea that everything in their life would have the ends tied up, the story closed and happily finished? If life was like a movie, it would be great and I'd probably have had significantly less obnoxious run-in's with my ex-boyfriend. If life was like a movie, I'd be able to park a car in between the lines. Zayn Malik probably would have fallen in love with me (or, at the very least, let me meet him) when I was the sole 22-year-old attending the One Direction concert and without a doubt, I'd have won the "Kendrick-Lamar's-New-Song-Sucks" debate I've been having with my friend, Caleb.
But, most notably, if my life was a movie, I would for sure be dating the man I met at a Jamba Juice four years ago.
I should start by saying that Jamba Juice is expensive. I should also start by saying that freshman year, I went there every day. Conveniently, a Jamba had opened up that year in AJ and, after I discovered that they could substitute raspberries for peaches in the Strawberry Surf Rider, it was game over for any other dining hall. I loved Jamba Juice with the same uninhibited passion that I had loved Aaron Carter with in elementary school. It wasn't just a meal -- it was lifestyle and clearly, I was obsessed.
Now, because Jamba was so expensive and I am not a fan of spending money on things that aren't fancy hats from Urban Outfitters, I basically ate the same meal every time I went there (which, remember, was every day). This worked out fine for me until one day before my night shift as a designer at the DN was about to begin and I knew that my regular meal of a Strawberry Surf Rider and a granola bar was just not going to cut it for dinner. I walked into Jamba in a jumbled state, not knowing what I was going to order and confusingly, slightly feeling as if I had lost some sort of purpose in life (I think this fact really says a lot about my Jamba Juice habits).
And, then, that's when I saw him -- the man I'd still be with today if life were a movie.
More specifically, that's when I saw him eating a parmesan pretzel and the planets realigned. In fact, to be completely honest, I still have no idea what this man looks like. In a behavior only appropriate for extremely hungry/Jamba Juice obsessed people, I zoned in only on the parmesan pretzel in his hand and immediately decided that I was going to talk to him about said food.
I walked over to him and, completely skipping out on the obligatory small talk introductions strangers are supposed to use, asked him about his parmesan pretzel (which, when I'm typing it out, sounds weirdly sexual and only adds to the awkwardness of this story). I explained to him my dilemma -- that I wanted to buy a parmesan pretzel, but had never tried it and didn't want to spend my last $4 of dining money on a meal that I would hate, so I wanted his opinion on how worth it the pretzel actually was.
Now, you know when you're out at lunch with your best friend and they order food that looks really good and you say something along the lines of, "Oh, how is your meal?", then they respond by saying, "Do you want to try it?", but it's not weird because that's a normal thing to say to your best friend?
This, however, is not a normal thing to say to a stranger at Jamba Juice yet, in a move that I think surprised us both, he asked me just that.
"It's alright," Parmesean-Pretzel-Dude said. "Do you want to try it?"
I could see that after he had extended the offer, he'd realized how uncomfortable it was and immediately wanted to take it back, but unfortunately for him, I do not pick up on appropriate social cues and accepted his invitation happily.
Then, in the move that will forever make my mother cringe with my awkwardness, I leaned in and took a bite out of his pretzel.
Yeah. I can repeat that. Instead of waiting for him to tear off a small piece of pretzel for me to sample, I just leaned in and went for it, taking an actual bite out of a strangers pretzel. As I was doing it, we both looked at each other in what could only be described as horror, uncomfortableness and the realization that this was maybe the strangest thing we've ever done.
Life is not a movie. If life were a movie, that would have been an adorable, quirky way to meet someone and we would have served Jamba Juice and pretzels at our wedding. Because life is not a movie, we both backed away from each other, slowly and mortified, while I mumbled "thanks," simultaneously still chewing and realizing that I was going to make the situation even more awkward by not ordering a parmesan pretzel when I got to the front of the line. They just weren't that good.