Sandwich Envy

I experienced pure and unadulterated envy the other day. Sandwich envy. This is not metaphorical. I was sitting in a very pleasant cafe with my mother. She was taking me to lunch. The cafe specialized in fresh soups, salads and sandwiches. The BLT entry with a choice of country or Italian bacon called out to me from the heavens. I started to form spittle on the corners of my mouth, and my eyes glanced upwards like one of those Botticelli women sprawled on the grass or splayed on a giant half-shell. But I couldn't partake. For the love of the pig, and its cow cousin, I've been avoiding their flesh, and for the love of a waist, I've been avoiding bread and pasta. It's a sad state of affairs for me, because I'd rather indulge in a nice hearty piece of bread any day than a scoop of ice-cream or a slice of chocolate cake. But, and according to my father, if you eat dough, you look like a dough. So the summer bathing suit season wins out here. I made a small exception in this small cafe though. I reasoned with myself that if I sacrificed Porky's flesh, I could stand to be temporarily porky with two slices of fresh bread. My mother got the BLT, and I, an unthrilling grilled squash, radicchio, and mozzarella sandwich. I saw it from afar, and I instantly knew, like you do when you smell an overripe melon, that I made a rotten choice. Perhaps it's the workings of my overactive imagination, but the waitress seemed to very gently set down my mother's tantalizing, fresh BLT, that displayed its own overriding joie de vivre, and plopped my flattened grilled vegetable poo-poo platter before me. My mother took a satisfying bite, and smiled. She knew she made the right choice. I took a bite of mine, and it was everything I thought it would be. Nothing. I parted the two pieces of nine-grain bread, and there were barely any innards, one small and shriveled round of squash, and a wilted radicchio leaf. I was sad, and knew that the waist Gods were looking down at me, and pointing their finger and chuckling. This is what I get. I see how it is. And then I looked behind me, and there it was. The sandwich to end all sandwiches. It too was a vegetarian option, but glistening with dew, fresh, delectable, sprouts, avocados, halvarti cheese stacked to form a colossus. It had my name on it, except it didn't. It was some other girl's. And she wasn't admiring it nearly as much as I was. I was shafted; like I've been so many times before this these last two years. I've been shafted because for some strange reason NY hates me, and won't hire me, and I can't even get a nice hoagie. I was enraged. My mom noticed that I was resentful and pained, and offered me a bite of hers. It was delicious. But I wanted the girl's wich. I left my stinky pieces of bread on my plate, and brazenly asked the waitress for another. "I'll have what she's having." "To go," the waitress asked. "No, for here," I said defiantly. I was all of sudden full of joy. I soon will have licked the envy and the pain. I waited and waited. My mom finished the BLT, and then pointed out into the distance. It was coming, my good-luck, all will be well elixir. Except when it came, it was no where near as nice-looking as the one the girl had. In fact hers was still sitting there in pretty delight. I wanted to trade with her, like I used to with the drab Garbage Pail kid cards. She saw me looking and laughed, and muttered something about how the grass is always greener.