Humility

I order a Coffee Bar original-sized ice cream from Marble Slab Creamery. The man behind the counter slides it over with a spoon. I ask for a lid. He doesn’t hand me a domed lid; he hands me a flat one.

“Do you want me to push it down for you?” he asks.

Do I want you to push it down for me?

I can’t decide which is stupider – that he thinks he can cram my coffee ice cream, which is plainly overflowing out of the plastic cup, into the plastic cup or that he thinks I want his hands all over my dessert. I don’t say anything and leave grabbing a napkin on my way out.

“I guess this is what happens when you don’t go to Cold Stone,” I tell Jaime once outside. I tell her normally I would vent to Matt, and he would say something like “Don’t’ belittle people” or “Not everyone is perfect.”

Perfect. I’m just asking for common sense. A flat lid? Really. The ice cream is now pooling onto my purse, which is now acting as a barrier between this dairy disaster and Jaime’s leather seats. I’m trying to salvage the situation with the paper-thin napkin, but my hands are sticky, the napkin is soaked, and my purse needs a bath.

I’ve been praying about humility. Scratch that. I’ve been thinking about praying about humility.