Milkshake

So much work for one strawberry milkshake. A drive in the rain, elbowing past multiple Door Dash people, and then the wait. The wait of epic proportions. 

In a small and sleepy city ('city') in a mostly empty restaurant in the middle of the week, you'd think walking up to the ice cream window and grabbing a milkshake would take, like, five minutes, tops. Nope.

There was no one at the window. A DD called out to an employee, asking if an order was ready. The DD was met with a barking, "HUH!?" and not much else. 

A bunch of employees lingered in the background, sweeping in pointless tandem.

There was no one at the window. More DDs arrived. The claw machine game let out a somewhat dismal calliope every few minutes. More Door Dashers. More wait time. A pink sea lion wearing a Pier 39 sweatshirt nestled in the middle of the claw machine, peeking out and looking like it, too, wanted to escape. 

No customer service. More rain.

An employee came over and promised to be with everyone soon.

More waiting. 

Finally, the DDs got their orders. Finally, our order was taken. 

More waiting. 

But then, there it was in all its pink calorie-laden glory.  Cue celebration music. A long sip, heaven. 

A quick dash to the car. The car door was blocked by a woman. For a long time. In the rain. But, at last, butts were in seats, and treats were in hands. 

Oh, was the milkshake delicious and appreciated. The determination of love is certainly something.