Me: “I like this mug: It’s big enough, but not too big; it keeps the coffee hot but the rim isn’t too thick.”
Dave: “Hm. A cup, is a cup, is a cup. [Long pause…] I like a cup that doesn’t fall apart, or cut my lips.”
I laughed for a full minute.
My sister got me going on mugs. She likes thin porcelain. Not me. But I hate thick mugs that, if microwaved, send you to the Burn Center.
Generally, though, I’m not picky. Sure, I have preferences, but they aren’t a big deal. For instance, I never order sweet and sour; but if you set it in front of me, I’ll eat it.
“Which beach do you like best?” … “Any will do, if there’s indoor plumbing nearby.”
“Chinese, or Mexican?” … “You choose—since it probably means more to you than it does me.”
I’ve never really gotten it, this whole picky thing.
“Next time you make this, can you try to remember I like it with raisins?” … “I’ll try, but I can’t promise.” (Because I don’t give a rip!)
“No thanks, I’ll pass; I don’t like nuts in my ice cream.” … Okay, this one’s so-o picky they’re turning down ice cream. They don’t eat nuts because they are nuts.
Remember Sally Albright? “But I’d like the pie heated and I don’t want the ice cream on top, I want it on the side, and I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it, if not then no ice cream just whipped cream but only if it’s real; if it’s out of the can then nothing.”
No, that’s not me. I’m not picky. And, frankly, does the rest of the planet really care whether I wake up to a buzz or the radio, wear loafers or scuffs, or choose Roquefort or Thousand? I don’t think so!
I like to keep my eyes on the giant scheme of things. It seems prudent, when a minimum-wage earner squirts on ketchup instead of mustard, to restrain myself from going into panic mode.