My female coworkers were talking about the different types of botox they had already gotten and the future procedures they were anticipating getting; meanwhile, I sat there, listening, while scarfing down a cinnamon roll from Panera Bread one of them had brought back from her lunch break. She had brought back several, and had cut them all into halves before extending the box to us, asking if we’d like one. My mouth instantly started watering as I took half of a delicious sweet treat.
“I just have a horrible habit of frowning when I’m concentrating,” one said as she bunched her forehead together and pointed to two faint wrinkles between her eyebrows.”
I took a bite of the cinnamon roll, the saliva practically running down my chin. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten something this delicately candied.
“It’s almost time for me to get my lips filled in again,” another chimed in. “They say you’re supposed to go every twelve months, but it’s been nine months and I can tell they need to be filled again.”
I was getting to the center of the cinnamon roll and it was good stuff. The icing to dough ratio was almost perfectly symmertical. If I concentrated and let my eyes go slightly half-masked, I could almost convince myself that the center was warm.
“I’ve wanted a boob job ever since I had my daughter,” my third coworker added.
The other two nodded and one began talking about a procedure she had done by a friend who was just getting started as a plastic surgeon. I was distraught because I had finished my dessert. My lips still had that sugary taste on them and I was desperate for another bite. I stared at the Panera box and I wondered if anyone would have any objections if I claimed the other half of that delightful cinnamon roll.
Living With Intentions 