Having dispensed all of my allotted wisdom for the week, I will instead relate an incident that happened a couple of days ago. Joe and I were eating lunch in a restaurant near his apartment; I ordered a Cobb salad.

One never knows what one is going to get when he orders a Cobb salad. Sometimes it is made with iceberg lettuce, which I hate, and sometimes it is made with spinach, which I love. This one was a large bowl full of shredded iceberg lettuce (which I hate) with shredded bacon, tomatoes, blue cheese, and onions on top. Everything was broken into the tiniest pieces imaginable; I felt like I was eating a bowl full of granola that tasted like Cobb salad made with iceberg lettuce, which I hate. And the worst part, beyond that it cost eleven dollars, was that, in a feat of regeneration worthy of the mysterious starfish, the more I ate, the more seemed to be in the bowl. Anyway, at one point, having eaten enough, I stuck my fork deep into the bowl heaped with a metric ton of shredded Cobb salad made with iceberg lettuce, which I hate.

Then something really bad happened.

Somehow, I knocked the handle of the fork, transforming it into a miniature catapult that launched a spray of shredded Cobb salad made with iceberg lettuce, which I hate, into the air; it rained down all over me, our table, and the table of the people next to us, who looked over at me in amused consternation.

That is when Joe realized that he had gone to Harvard with the less-cute of the pair of men. The more-cute one kept pointing out how I had shredded iceberg lettuce, which I hate, stuck to my glasses and face and shirt.

How mortifying.

Next time, I will order the macaroni and cheese, which I used to hate but now love.