Drive-thru at Dairy Queen

Dessert last night was a Dairy Queen blizzard, so I decided I was fine to go in my sluttily short pajama shorts and white tank top – both opposite patterns. This is not something I would ever wear outside the confines of my own home, but since Dairy Queen is only a quarter of a mile from my apartment and I planned on hitting up the drive-thru, no hasty wardrobe changes were necessary.

I pulled up to DQ and saw the line for the drive-thru was now out of the parking lot and onto the street. I had to wait in this line, there is no way I could go inside and let the 15-year old employees see my awful get-up, let alone make the customers look at my general pastiness that becomes glaringly obvious when too much of my skin is revealed. So while I stayed in line, I had plenty of time to reflect on questions such as, “has anyone ever ran out of gas in a drive-thru line?”

I was able to laugh twice, once at the deejay’s crude comment at the expense of Paris Hilton, and once at the woman behind me wearing bifocals. She was squinting, trying to make out the choices on the menu from thirty feet away. Do people really ponder their decisions at Dairy Queen? I thought this one was pretty straightforward. You get a blizzard, unless you’re broke, and then you get a dilly bar.

Once my Saturn finally paralleled the window, the high school sophmore who took my order popped out to take my money in trade for his vanilla ice cream mixed with Reese’s that somehow costs close to $5 now. When he saw me, his eye widened and he stuck not only his head, but his entire torso out that tiny window until he was within inches of my face.

To refined tastes, I leave much to be desired. However, to primitive tastes, I meet the basic requirements: that is to say, I have the necessary womanly assets with no obvious defects instantly noticeable to the “elevator eyes” (this is a term I picked up which refers to the up-and-down guys give women when quickly scanning their bodies).

“Well that was quick,” I said to the pimple who somehow ran my credit card and also handed me my ice cream all within five seconds. He misinterpreted my polite comment to be either a compliment or flirting (or is there any difference to a male?) and responded with, “that’s how we get it done around here,” while grinning goofily. If anyone knows the Dairy Queen drive-thru line is not fast, it is me. I am not sold by campaign promises. So off I drove, never to return to the line until I had more conservative attire (including a minimizer bra).

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