There we were, sitting curbside outside of the local yogurt salon eating our precious sweets like three ducks in a row. Sandwiched between my husband and sister-in-law, I was scarfing down a concoction consisting of about 1 part ice cream/1 part heath bar.
Earlier that day I was griping about the state of my behind. Growing every day, I had decided the age of 25 had brought with it the failure of my metabolism. Sulking this new realization into fruition, I focused in on the toffee and chocolate, letting the details sort themselves out where they may (I can tell you where they sorted themselves out). I had woken up that morning, peered at my own reflection through blurry eyes, and been reminded that my new shape didn’t melt overnight. I pushed the contacts into my eyes and stumbled over to the underwear drawer, where I randomly selected a pair of hippopotamus-printed panties. After slipping into them, I realized the irony, and only hoped those hungry hippos would take a chunk out of my behind.
But that was all behind me now as I sat in the warm summer air eating and talking like a carefree high-schooler. As I leaned in to take another bite, a commotion of teenagers in a speed-swooshing white car pummeled down the street. Windows down, two of them were only debatably still halfway inside of the car. In what couldn’t have been more than 1.2 seconds, a blond girl with a fearful face chucked an egg. There were three other eggs behind that one. I felt a serious pelting to my hip flexor. Without enough time to dodge the edible missiles, the eggs landed where they may. I can assure you it was a lively night for frozen yogurt.
Apple store employees came out to see the commotion as I clutched my upper thigh. I took a photo of the eggs and went back to my ice cream. This hippo was hungry.