Sometimes on break, I scarf down my lunch just to squeeze in a few extra minutes of writing before heading back to work. Always on a quest for efficiency, I wondered if I could “hat and mittens” down my lunch too. The only problem? It’s not winter. Besides, I’d probably look better rocking an ascot like Fred Jones from Scooby-Doo. I’m too scared to solve mysteries, so I write them instead. Fred had a fashion sense, unlike me. I try to dress like him, but I usually end up looking more like Shaggy.
On a really rough day, I don’t just resemble Shaggy—I look more like Scooby-Doo himself. But hey, Great Danes are pretty great, right? Especially during the dog days of summer, when it’s sweltering outside. Those are definitely not the days to be wearing a hat, mittens, and scarf while eating lunch, all in the name of getting a few more words down on the page.
One day, I decided to wear an ascot to lunch instead, just like Fred. I strutted into the break room with my head held high. The microwave dinged, announcing my lunch was ready. As I sat down to eat, a coworker gave me a puzzled look.
“What’s with the ascot?” they asked.
“What else would I be wearing to lunch, a bib?” I replied. “I mean, how would I solve any mysteries wearing a bib?”
“What kind of mysteries are there to solve in the break room?” they asked, looking even more perplexed.
“Well, for starters, what’s this Great Dane doing in the break room? Is there such a thing as Not-so-great Danes or just Plain Danes? And would they still solve mysteries, just not as great as Great Danes? And what happened to my Danish? Not that it’s really a mystery. Anyone can guess what happened to it,” I said.
What started with the best intentions of becoming a great writer like Oscar Wilde, who also sported an ascot, by the way, resulted in me solving whodunits about missing donuts, muffins, and other assorted pastries. It usually ends with me being called a meddling kid and trying to yank masks off my coworkers, who clearly aren’t wearing any. Perhaps, I should’ve just stuck with scarfing down my food like the Plain Dane that ate my Danish—after all, I get more writing done that way.
