After scouring the whole Price Chopper for a pack of plain mini-marshmallows for some hot chocolate for Noah and Emi, I finally settled for the bag of pastel-colored beauties seen here. At the check-out, the cashier was waxing rhapsodic about the pretty marshmallows.
Me: “It’s only because you don’t have any plain white ones.”
Cashier: “Aww, you’re man enough to be comfortable eating pastel marshmallows.”
At times like this I wish I could hand out a card that would instantly convey my history so she could see what a foolish thing that is to say. But how could she ever know? How could anyone ever know…
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