Unfortune Cookie

My lunch last week was rather unsettling. I accompanied my friend Scott to China Taste and began our midday excursion with what strangely has become my pre-meal ritual... mandarin orange tea with a slice of orange (or two, depending on my mood), two packets of "I can't believe it's not sugar" (Splenda), and a pair of fortune cookies for my own amusement. I should have known something was amiss when there were no oranges (or lemons) at the drink counter... I should have aborted the ritual altogether at that point, but I did not. I grabbed my two fortune cookies just the same, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary.

Scott opened his cookie first. His fortune was not atypical... something about friends or happiness or any number of things one would expect from the average fortune cookie. I can't quite remember the details, as is often the case when a thing follows its expected course. I do however remember the disappointment of breaking open my empty fortune cookie. Though disheartening, it was not altogether unpredictable. Occasionally an empty fortune cookie will slip through the cracks... we all know this. It's a risk we accept when we sign up for the job (of eating fortune cookies). The cookie's punishment for such an act of deceit was a fate nearly indistiguishable from that of its more honorable counterparts... my teeth chewed with greater contempt than usual, perhaps even with a bit of malice, though eventually I swallowed the well-chewed cookie along with any lingering feelings of contempt (and malice).

But what of my second cookie? I clasped it with both hands, staring sharply enough to pierce its shell and write my own fortune through sheer force of will, as I am wont to do from time to time. "What if you get two cookies in a row without a fortune?" Scott asked. My reply? "I think I might go run into traffic. That's nearly impossible." I steadied my nerves.

Crack. Nothing. Empty. Again.

I felt no contempt this time, no malice. This cookie hadn't betrayed me, and I instantly felt overwhelming guilt for sensing such betrayal in the first. One unfortune cookie is betrayal, but two in a row can only be by design. Suddenly I was scared. What were the cookies trying to tell me? It's strange how one takes a fortune cookie so much more seriously when there is no fortune at all.

As I started in on my entree, I meditated on the spectacular failure of my pre-meal ritual. Though uncertain of its meaning, I had already decided that observance of my post-meal ritual was out of the question... two more fortune cookies, two more packs of Splenda, and a second helping of tea... the pre-meal orange tends to suffice for post-meal purposes as well, serving as a sort of bookends to my silly habit. Perhaps sensing my disappointment and concern, Scott asked "You're not taking another one?" I shook my head, quietly answering "No. It will only be empty."

A brief moment later another fortune cookie thundered down upon the table... or perhaps it was more like a light clatter? Admittedly these cookies were far more imposing by this point to my mind's perception than in reality. "Open it fucker," Scott said. "I picked it. It will be fine." Wearily I lifted the cookie, which felt to me like a rusty old anchor struggling to remain barnacled and burdened at the bottom of the sea. I steadied my nerves... again.

Crack...

the cookie - and my sheepish half-smile upon noticing the slip of white paper inside. "You shall soon achieve perfection." Well that's certainly a departure from empty, but still I had my doubts. If Scott picked the fortune cookie, perhaps its fortune was never meant for me... only one way to find out. Counting the new cookie as one half the pair of my post-meal ritual, I had one more cookie to go before I could safely refill my Splenda and tea... before I could know that everything would be ok.

I approached the cookie bin cautiously; I chose my cookie carefully. Sensing something odd, I gently put it back and chose another. As I turned back toward my table, my eyes met those of an older woman who'd been refilling her diet soda. Clearly she'd been watching me, and clearly she thought me strange, but more clearly than either of the two she had no idea the gravity of the situation.

Crack.

"Generosity and perfection are your assets - and they show."
There it was. A perfect match (pardon the pun). From "you shall soon achieve perfection," to "generosity and perfection are your assets," in a matter of minutes. All was well again.

I learned two valuable lessons at lunch that day:
Heed warning signs wherever you see them - Had I paused to consider the meaning of the missing oranges, I may have aborted my pre-meal ritual, avoiding altogether the calamity which nearly befell me.

When things aren't quite going as planned, don't hesitate to put your faith in another - Who knows how this story might have ended had I not accepted Scott's cookie?

Or perhaps there are no lessons here, and the cookies were simply trying to tell me I am perfect... one can never be certain.