That thud you just heard? That was me. Falling off my high horse.
It was pretty loud because that horse was pretty high.
The subject of my erroneous highfalutin-ness? Drive-Thrus.
I used to believe that Drive-Thrus were the bane of our existence. “How hard is it to get out of your car?” “How lazy are we?” “No wonder this country’s fat!”
Then I had a kid.
So now I come to you, Drive-Thrus, hat in hand. I’m here to let everyone know that I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
Sure, you’re mostly associated with establishments that serve nutritionally questionable fare, but there’s so much more to you I had never bothered to appreciate.
- You are the answer to a newborn’s parents’ sleep-deprived, like-hell-I’m-going-to-cook prayers.
- You are the solution for caretakers who’d rather gnaw off their arm in hunger rather than wake their strapped-in-a-carseat-snoozing child.
- You are the excuse to grab a little “me time” (aka soft serve ice cream) during an unexpectedly numerous diaper-filled afternoon.
- You are the conduit for caffeinated beverages for those who find themselves running late, carrying a screaming tot, scurrying out of the house sans makeup, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
- You provide anonymity for those same people who would then never be caught dead walking into an establishment looking like that.
So thank you, dear Drive-Thrus, for helping me see the (bright neon) light.
And if anyone asks, I only ordered salads. Yep. Just salads.