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3-hour lunches

By 1:28 PM , ,

affogato with chocolate ice cream*

It's been two plus weeks since my on-site job at Adobe ended. My last week was so easy breezy, it was criminal to call it going to work. We were basically done with our project but just coming in for insurance - in case anything came up. So we'd roll in mid-morning, plan and discuss lunch options and then just go off-campus to wherever for however long, begrudgingly return, sit at our desks until we take a coffee break and then leave early.

The longest lunch we took was at Piccino mid-week. I think we left the office a little shy of noon, only to sluggishly come back around 3:30. There were many plates of appetizers, salads, pizzas, entrées, wine, dessert and coffee. Yup, three hours seems about right. I guess this is what it must've been like when people took three-martini lunches on Madison Ave. during its heyday or how people in Rome live every day.
Well, three hour lunches no more. I know, cry me a fucking river. This is the epitome of white-people problems, even though none of us were white that day.

But seriously, now it's back to the nose-to-the-grindstone schedule. I have to whip myself into shape. I've been doing quite well, considering how I could have left my cushy post kicking and screaming. Truth is, I can't do "leisure" for too long. I'm much too restless and don't feel productive while at rest. I like running around like a chicken with her head stuck in a tiny bucket (I switched out the saying, because I have a new found affection for chickens). Plus, those long lunches add up in dollars, time and pounds, none of which I should lose track of...

But nice things are nice when they come around. It sure as hell beats hovering over your keyboard with a plastic fork and an overpriced salad while staring at a mind-numbing string of emails on-screen for half an hour and call it a lunch hour. I had fun. It was the perfect transition from prison to freedom. Thanks a bunch. And I'll see you again somewhere unexpected, Mr. Longlunch. I have to go check on my rice cooker now.

*I made the mistake of excusing myself from the table when dessert was ordered and my colleague picked chocolate ice cream for my affogato - WHO DOES THAT? It was fine, but pure vanilla, and only vanilla, please, for affogatos. Again, white-people-problems...

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