I'm a Horrible Person

It was a regional jet with 4 seats across from Salt Lake City direct to Colorado Springs. As I approached my seat,  the sweaty man next to mine didn't make eye contact.  So, I didn't pursue any pleasantries. He was transfixed by the animated show on his laptop and consumed every inch of his seat. I settled in 32C,  deftly arching my body toward the aisle in a crescent, careful not to graze my elbow on the shared armrest and make accidental contact.  Then, I opened my book and completely escaped.

On Friday, I met Lori at a local eatery near my house, for lunch, anxious to catch up on the events of the last month. We had a lot of ground to cover, so we jumped right in. While perusing the menu, she asked about my trip. So I quickly recapped my weekend in Salt Lake. She decided on the salmon salad. Which reminded me of the chocolate balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing that my sister and I made for lunch right before she dropped me off at the airport return home.  (My conversations frequently turn to food.)   It's so delicious, in a very decadent garlicky-minimum-of-three-days-on-your-breath-because-you-can't-brush-it-nor-mouth-wash-it-off-your-breath-kinda-way.  So, I told her that I sympathized with the man who had to sit next to me on the plane.  Briefly.  Before I rescinded my empathy and announced, "But, he was diiiiiisguuuuuuuusting", with a long drawn out drawl in the middle of the restaurant.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar black and yellow hockey jersey. The same one I saw on Sunday. On the plane. Oh. My. God. What are the chances that the guy from the plane is sitting right behind me at the restaurant? And I said he was disgusting.  Maybe he didn't hear it.  But, not only did I said it loud, I enunciated every syllable with my mouth, so even the hearing impaired could  read my lips and know the heinous thing that came out of it.  He definitely heard me.  Because he looked directly at me to acknowledge my offense.  I was too mortified to meet his gaze. And I was searching my memory to see if I could remember if he had luggage or not. Because exactly what are the chances he's wearing the same shirt?  Which I would argue helps support the argument that he is in fact disgusting. That is, if I didn't feel like the most horrible, hurtful person on earth. Which I did. And still do.

I was preoccupied for the rest of the meal wondering if he was going to say anything to me when he left. He didn't. Nor did I apologize to him. Which made me further ashamed of myself. When I confessed to Lori, she tried to console me.  "Maybe he's a child molester."  Come on.  What are the chances?  Then, she tried a different approach.  What if  he thought disgusting is like "phat" used to be.  You know, slang for cool.  Maybe he interpreted it that way.   He didn't.   Lori and I are now trying to establish "disgusting" as the new "phat".   ie:  "Did you see Adam Levine take off his shirt on Saturday Night Live last night? Dude,  that was so diiiisssgguuuutttting!"  And while doing that is fun, I still feel awful.  And need to redeem myself.

Since it's unlikely that I will run into that disgusting, phat guy again, or so I hope.  I'm seeking atonement for my gross indiscretion. By doing a public service, since I've already self flagellated.  So, I'm sharing the recipe for that  Chocolate Balsamic Salad Dressing that started all of this in the first place.

4 tsps cocoa powder
1 tbsp brown sugar
1 tsp dijon mustard
1 clove garlic, pressed
5 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2/3 cup olive oil

Serve over spinach with blackberries, pears, feta cheese and walnuts.

You just might not want to eat it before you get on a plane.  But, it's so disgusting you probably won't be able to help yourself!

(Oh, I imagine this dressing would also taste great drizzled over Adam Levine.  Now that would be totally disgusting!)