Business lunch

Miss Dub and I had a misadventure yesterday that seemed apropos in light of the day’s Hot Topic.

Feeling under the weather – Miss Dub is getting FOUR teeth, and I’m getting a black lung – we decided the best medicine would be to get under the weather with a walk to a nearby sandwich shop.

Miss Dub was giddy to be my lunch date, even though I was makeup-less, accessory-less and clad in pink sweat shorts spattered with stars. (So maybe I should stop shopping in the Junior’s department.)

The walk is short but requires a little creativity as there are no sidewalks at one point and two very major roads intersect at the same junction. But Miss Dub likes a little stroller off-roading so we made it unscathed.

Thoughts of soup and/or sandwich were filling my head as we walked into the establishment, only to realize it was smack dab in the middle of lunch hour. And we live in an area mostly zoned for corporations who consider Casual Friday sacrilegious.

I almost wanted to turn around due to the long line and sheer embarrassment of seeing my loungewear juxtaposed with crisp blouses. But I like lunch, and I struggle to stay embarrassed for more than a few seconds so I turned my focus to the baked goods.

“Excuse me!” I uttered over and over as I tried to weave our stroller between rows of men on their Blackberrys. (Or is it Blackberries? Mmm … blackberries.) Finally I got aggressive, reasoning that real leather loafers could endure a few tire tracks.

My purse, overflowing with 10 possible lunch options for Miss Dub, was hitting people as I attempted to find a small table that could accommodate a high chair and a stroller. Glares interspersed with gawking came my way as our baby gear blocked others from getting to their tables fast enough to toss down their food and head back for more meetings.

Feeling hot from the walk, the humidity and the technicalities of the situation, I finally got my food and sat down. All around me were important conversations like, “What are we going to do about the Wallace account?” And catty work banter like, “I heard Ken used to be a woman.”

So it took a lot of energy and willpower to resist people-watching and eavesdropping and tune out the adult surroundings to focus on my little lady.

But I did.

Soon we were happily sharing my lunch. Miss Dub kicked her legs enthusiastically, thrilled to be dining out with me but not competing for my attention with other guests. I talked about the magical healing properties of soup. She said, “Duck, duck, duck.” We divided a cookie, but I quickly gave in and let her eat my half.

Her face was covered in chocolate by the end, and I was a little messy myself. So I broke out the wipes, cleaned us up and got our gear gathered for the complicated departure.

That’s when I realized people were watching. Staring. Eavesdropping.

And they didn’t look disturbed by my shabby appearance. They didn’t seem annoyed by the mountain of supplies I tote for one small child.

They looked jealous.

Because even though there were undoubtedly Very Important People eating lunch nearby, there was no doubt who had the most important (and rewarding) job there.

Let's do lunch again soon, Miss D!