The wonders of
oranges.
I ran out of apples yesterday, so I decided to mix things up and buy
oranges to eat at lunch for the next week. That was before I knew any better.
As a typical day would have it, I came out of my class at 12:30, sat on a bench, and began to eat my lunch. After finishing a wonderful bowl of leftover potato soup and some bread to go with it, I pulled the next menu item out of my lunch back: the
orange.
I analyzed the fruit in my hand. It was shaped like the apples I'd eaten before, but there was a problem. Instead of simply biting into this fruit, I would have to peel off the outer layer. As ambitious as I was feeling, I thought
ah, no problem. And off I went. I dug my fingers and started peeling. Oh, the pain of peeling an
orange! But in the end, I was fully confident that it would be worth the struggle.
I finished the top part of the
orange peel and gave my hands a break.
Oh, dear. I'm not even halfway there! I resumed my work.
When I was a little over halfway there, I stopped again to realize that the sticky sour juice was oozing from the
orange onto my laboring fingers. I re-positioned the continuing operation over to my lunch box to collect the mess, and continued to press on.
Finally, I was making my last round on the peel. How happy I was! Finally, I would open the lovely
orange for which long I had labored and could delve into its marvelous tartness. I twisted and prodded the stubborn thing until the first pieces broke off. More of the sticky juices squirted into my hand. That was fine; this was going to be great.
And then it happened. All my fantasies of a tasty
orange came crashing down on me as I bit into the slice of fruit. It was the most undelightful
orange I had ever tasted. Oh, what disappointment! What shame at my bitter loss!
Guess what? I kept eating the
orange, and each slice was the same: an unappealing sticky mess. I was only assured by the thought that I was eating my daily serving of fruit (I strive to make my mother proud).
When the
orange was finished, my hands were dripping with
orange juice. I picked up my napkin to wipe them off, but the sticky stuff just made my napkin dissolve and crumble in my hands. Out of sheer frustration at my predicament, I finally wiped my hands on my skirt (sorry mom). They were still sticky, but were no longer wet.
However, my sticky hands probably weren't even the worst things, because I still hadn't finished eating my lunch. In the modified words of our reelected president, "The best was yet to come." You're right there, sir.
That's because dessert comes next! I pulled out my brownie, in all of its deliciousness and mouthwatering delicacy, feasting my eyes on the prize that would overcome the grief from the
orange. I took a bite and froze. It tasted like
oranges. All I could smell was the dried
orange juice on my hands. Would my misery ever end?
I finished the last bites of the brownie that eventually left me with a deliciously sweet ending, threw away my trash, packed up my stuff, and, because of the brownie, had nearly forgiven my
orange for the laborious and unrewarding journey it had brought upon me.
That's when I made the mistake of licking my lips.
