Vending Machine Anxiety

I visited the vending machine this past Friday, part of my new health kick where I bring my lunch to work everyday.... riiight. Anyways, I stood in front of the machine trying to decide which of the goodies I was going to choose, and wondering as I often did, why on earth the glass was so damn thick. I felt like I was in the Tower of London looking at the Crown Jewels. The only difference was that I couldn't expect to get a billion dollar necklace by depositing some change into a coin slot. Let's be realistic here. Bags of chips, Grandmother's cookies and some Wrigley's gum... Bulletproof glass? A little over the top.

At any rate, finally after a few minutes, I make my decision, which is the same decision I make every time I go to a vending machine, Cheetos. I deposit my 80 cents and carefully punch in the letter number sequence.

I say carefully because there was an incident about a year or so ago, in which there was a letter-number combo slip-up and I ended up with a package of those stale cracker sandwich things that no one in their right mind would ever voluntarily choose. With only 5 cents remaining, I had no choice but to go hungry. I vowed from that point onwards I would never find myself in that predicament ever again. The one thing I have no control over however, is what happens after I make my selection.

Am I the only one who stands there staring hard at those metal coily things willing them to relinquish from its death grip, my meal in a bag? I do. I stare. I stare hard. Anxiety builds up as I think about the havoc I plan to wreak on this demon machine if it doesn't give me my f&%king Cheetos. And anxious I remain until that final moment when I see my Cheetos drop, like a gift from the heavens.

Then just like that, I feel relaxed, elated, giddy even. It is a glorious feeling indeed, like you just dodged a bullet. I reach down, contort my hand awkwardly and retrieve my reward.

As wonderful as this victory is, I think next week I'll definitely be bringing my lunch.