Open-Minded

Imagine you’re sat in an office canteen, where you work for whatever reason. Maybe you have no marketable skills and therefore just put numbers into a computer all day. That’s my excuse anyway.

So you’re sitting in the canteen, and you’re sitting with a person who is of the gender you are typically attracted to. And of appropriate age. Most of you took that as read, but I don’t want any litigious readers blaming me for putting ideas into their head.

You both sit there, chatting, occasionally letting your eyes flit to the attractive features of their face. Their just-thick-enough eyebrows, their high cheekbones, their giant nostrils (trying to cater to every taste here) all drive you crazy, and you realise you’re physically quite attracted to them. And that maybe you saw them look at your face in a similarly appraising way, and you get a flutter of excitement. Then you make a witty crack about a recent development at the company. Perhaps a new, impressively sized printer has been installed. Maybe you make a pun based on the words ‘big draw’ and ‘big drawer’, the drawer referring to the bit where the paper goes. But you don’t have to explain that to the person you’re sitting with. They crack up laughing. You see that you have the same sense of humour, and that they actually like you for who you are. They do something that gives you confidence that they feel the same. Something like biting their lip if they’re a woman, or if they’re a man, grinning like an idiot, or something less stereotypical and sexist.

They get out their packed lunch (it could happen) and pop off the plastic lid. They pick up a small yoghurt pot, and a spoon you assume they’ve brought from home, or stolen on the way to work. You look at the lunchbox, and notice it’s emblazoned with the name of your favourite band/TV show/movie/reality show contestant. They move the lunchbox to one side, and begin to peel back the yoghurt pot lid.

The conversation has now paused. Not in an awkward way, just a natural break. They’re about to start eating and there’s a mutually satisfactory pause in the exchange. You look down at your food, a grimly symmetrical sandwich and packet of baked crisps, because you think baking something is better than frying it, which is only really true for cakes. You’re jealous of the yoghurt, until you look back up.

The yoghurt lid is at their mouth, one corner pinched between finger and thumb. Mouth agape, their tongue is approaching the yoghurt coated side of the lid. You know what’s happening, you’ve done it before. But only ever in the etiquette free exile of your own home. But now it’s happening in front of you, by someone you thought you liked.

They are licking the lid of the yoghurt pot.

You feel all eyes in the work canteen are on you and your eating partner, judging this disgraceful display, and judging you for sitting there in silent approval.

So what do you do? The tongue is now on the lid, sliding upwards and collecting the yoghurt in a neat slime globule. Do you abandon them at the table, your new flame, loudly proclaiming them to be a disgusting troll, and kick them swiftly in the shins on the way out?
Or do you sit there, accepting it?

You take a moment. This decision will determine who you are as a person. What you stand for.

You reach across the table, and dunk your finger into the open yoghurt pot.
“Mmmmm. I love yoghurt too!”
You suck the yoghurt from your finger loudly, outdoing your partner, taking the brunt of the attention.

Your lunch-buddy appreciates this. Six months later you get married, and tell this story at the reception. Some laugh, others look confused. But all try to ignore the giant yoghurt you’ve placed on each table, a tribute to the quirky theme of the wedding.

You dine out on this story for years. You become insufferable, and only have each other.

Is that what you want?

Didn’t think so.

 

 

Next time on The Bandwagon, I’ll be looking at the pros and cons of ceilings.