I was waiting in line for a chicken sandwich at Wendy’s when the woman standing behind me said to me, “God, I’m sorry I even came here. These people are taking forever. What is wrong with them?”
I offered my standard response to a comment like this:
“I’m sorry, but I don’t work here, and I don’t like talking behind people’s backs. But the guy getting our orders ready is right there, so why not complain to him instead of me?”
As you can imagine, this response is never appreciated, but this woman was ready for me. She listened to my snarky, albeit justified, response and admittedly condescending tone, paused for a fraction of a second, and said, “Yeah? Well, your fly is down.”
And it was. Way down. All the way down. Underwear-peaking-out-from-it down.
“Touché,” I said, unable to conjure a suitable retort. Then I yanked my fly up, turned and waited patiently for my chicken sandwich from the glacially slow employee behind the counter.
Sometimes the only thing you can do is admit defeat and move on.
