I parked my van in one of the parking ramps downtown, early for a lunch date with friends, and decided to kill a little time by running an errand at a nearby store. Once I was done, I returned to the van to drop off my purchases – only to discover, there, lying on the garage floor next to my vehicle, a bag of donuts.
I should explain something: Me and donuts, we have a history. It's a sort of checkered past involving my intense sweet tooth and the amazing deliciousness of donuts, over-indulgence, regret, bliss, shame, etc. It's physically difficult for me to pass up an offer of donuts.
I froze. Stood perfectly upright. Dared only to stare sidelong at the clear bag containing what looked like two fresh-from-the-bakery donuts. Jelly filled. Glistening with the sweat of their glaze pressed against the plastic of the bag. They looked untouched, like some poor soul had simply dropped them there and gone on with their day, unaware of the loss.
How could you not notice that you’d dropped your donuts?
I was appalled. And tempted. Should I pick up the bag? Eat those perfectly good donuts? I mean, hello, free donuts.
But then, what if this was a test? What if there was a hidden camera somewhere, recording this moment of my greatest challenge? What if there was a piece of string attached and someone, hidden behind a nearby wall, was just waiting to pluck the bounty away as soon as I bent over to grab it?
No, I thought. Don’t eat the floor donuts. Not because someone might be watching, but because it would feel like rock bottom. Resist! But...NO. Don't do it. You're better than this, dammit.
I forced myself to finish my errand and walked away to the lunch date. Left the sack of abandoned donuts behind me, for someone else to discover.
Goodbye, floor donuts. Goodbye.