Pressure Cooked

I'm actually pretty good under pressure. Once Tiffany and I were towing my brother's jet ski to him, and we had a blow-out on the highway. I was driving in the fast lane and very calmly put my blinker on, slowly maneuvering our longness to the shoulder, which we rode to the next exit. (Of course, although we both know how to change a tire, neither one of us could get the lug-a-majigs off even when we took turns standing and bouncing on the tire iron. Thank god for the kindness of stranger-truck drivers.)

Under other kinds of pressure, however, I'm no good. No good at all.

The way I agonize over ordering food at a restaurant, for instance, you'd think I was never going to have another opportunity to eat.

"I'm having the grilled ham and cheese and I'm asking for it with tomato and avocado," I said, matter-of-factly, when Tiffany and I sat down across from our friends Zac and Kate for lunch the other day.

Then, just for fun, I glanced at the menu again.

"Oooh, the grilled chicken sandwich sounds good," I considered aloud.

"Do you want to split that?" Tiffany asked. "With sweet potato fries?"

"Yep," I said. "Let's do it."

But as soon as the waitress came along, I began to doubt my decision. While the waitress turned to Kate, then Zac, I turned to Tiffany.

"I don't know," I whispered.

Tiffany rolled her eyes.

"Why don't you get the ham and cheese, and I'll get the grilled chicken..." she began.

"No, that's too much food!" I said. "Can we split the ham and cheese?"

"Yes. Whatever."

The waitress turned to me, tapping her pen on her little notepad. Judging.

"We'll have the grilled chicken sandwich," I blurted.

"Are you sure?" Tiffany asked.

"Shhhh!" I hissed. "Yes, I'm sure."

I call this my dining-hall-sandwich-line-syndrome. The dining hall in my college dorm was fantastic, as far as places that serve mass quantities of food go. But I was terrified of the sandwich line. I always ordered a turkey on wheat. Every time I got in line, I told myself I'd branch out and try something different. While I pushed my tray along, I built some beauties in my brain: a wrap with hummus, roasted peppers and spinach, maybe, or a bagel with cream cheese piled high with every veggie on display. But when it came time for me to make a decision, I always lost my nerve.

The sandwich man had a lazy eye, which didn't help. I could never tell if he was addressing me or the person behind me:

"What will you have?" he'd say.

And I'd wait politely--thinking he'd accidentally skipped me--for the person behind me to answer. But then I'd see his good eye begin to glare... in my direction.

"Turkey on wheat!" I'd answer. "Please! And thank you so much!"