Lunch

So I've got a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth. I can feel it. Long and stringy, like the little bloom part is just wedged between my molars -- the molars that cost me thousands of dollars to fix; the molars that didn't catch pieces of broccoli in them before I got them fixed. I'm obsessed with this piece of broccoli. I keep shoving my tongue over there, trying to coordinate an extraction dance with the top molars, starting at the base of the piece of broccoli, running my tongue up its length, securing it between the tip of my tongue and the top molars, then tongue-pulling it with all my might. It hasn't worked yet, but I'm convinced it will.

I realize it would be incredibly easy just to place my left thumb and index finger in there swiftly, grab the piece of broccoli, and yank it out. End of story. If I did this, it might spare me the inevitable tongue abrasion I'm going to give myself, the sore jaw from this unusual, almost horizontal motion, and the looks I'm getting every once in awhile from the people eating lunch around me who are worried I may be having a stroke, or at best, a bout of Tourette's. I know I could end all this quickly, but I refuse to.

Why?

Well because I don't think that's what Robert Frost would want me to do. Think about it. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, right? The more-traveled road is the one where people pull out their lodged pieces of broccoli in a way that most people pull out their lodged pieces of broccoli, while the other less-traveled road is where people try less acceptable, yet equally viable, approaches to removing their lodged pieces of broccoli which, in the end, will yield a much higher quotient of satisfaction.

So I, I'm going to take the one less traveled by, and that will make all the difference . . . especially when it comes to giving myself a headache.