Back when my husband and I were dating, probably around age 17 or so, we would often get a bite of something takeout to eat before driving off on an adventure. On one particular evening, we stopped at a now defunct Mexican restaurant for some fried ice cream. This wasn’t unusual, because at the time it was one of my favorite desserts and I often had a craving for it.
Unfortunately, this particular treat was covered with the most vile whipped cream. For whatever reason, while stopped at a red light, I made the unwise decision to open the passenger door and spit out the offensive white fluff.
No harm, no foul, or so I thought. While still stopped, I heard cheering and applause. To my surprise, behind us was a pickup truck filled with guys. Being naive, I didn’t understand the accolades at first. My date politely suggested that I consider the visual of my actions. My surprise turned to sheer horror. Even if it’s a cliché, if it were possible to die of embarrassment, that would have been my last night alive. You just can’t make this stuff up, or did I?