Come on, A to Z challengers, you know you all thought it! No? Huh. It is one of the first things I thought of when looking at a blank screen and the letter F. I think the progression was “Fajitas, French Bread Pizza…hey, why do I immediately go to food?… Food starts with F too!” That’s too broad of a category for this post, though. In honor of today’s lunch, I’m going to settle on French Bread Pizza. Yum!
I love French Bread Pizza. Being an extremely (to the point of being tedious) picky eater, I could probably eat it every other day (when I’m not stuffing myself full of Chinese food, Oreos, and the above-mentioned fajitas) and never be sick of it. But this post is not going to expound upon the virtues of crusty French bread topped with delicious sauce, plenty of basil and melted cheese, mmmm. This post is a funny story that has to do with French Bread Pizza, because the food bloggers can do so much more justice to the meal itself.
I used to swim at my local YMCA (there’s a heated pool in one location and a regular Olympic pool in the other) and I really must sign up again. This story takes place on a night we were using the gross heated pool.
A few years ago I was taking actual classes, more of water aerobics/aquacize than swimming. This one night I took two classes back-to-back, and by back-to-back I mean you don’t even get out of the water in between. I had a date for drinks later that night, but I was punishing myself for missing classes before. I enjoyed the classes, didn’t feel particularly exhausted, I thought, until it was time to go. As I’m pulling myself out of the pool (in the 8-feet-deep end) I nearly lost my balance because my legs did not want to climb the stairs even though my arms were doing the heavy lifting, pulling my body up. It took me a while to get up four steps and move away from the ladder, very embarrassing. That’s not the funny story, that’s just lame, and I haven’t gotten to the pizza part yet.
I change out of my swim shorts and put on sweat shorts and tee shirt over my bathing suit, stick the swim shorts into the plastic bag I had so thoughtfully brought with me, put my nice dry flip-flops on and bypass the locker room, feeling smug that I don’t need it, I’m well prepared to just drive the 2 minutes to my house. I had prepped my car too, by stretching my towel on the seat. I get home still feeling like I’m about to fall over and now starved, so I go to the kitchen, thinking I would put a French Bread Pizza in the oven, and by the time it was done a half hour later, I’d be done showering and cleaning all my swimmies.
I took the box of pizza out of the freezer, open the single-serving pizza, put it on an aluminum tray, preheated the oven, put the remaining pizza back in the freezer, threw the empty box in the garbage, and stuck the pizza in the microwave, while setting the timer for one minute.
If you missed two reasons why that was ridiculous, re-read the above paragraph.
I have no idea why I set the timer for one minute. I have no idea why I stuck a pizza in an aluminum tray in the microwave at all, much less while I was thinking to myself how it was going to take a half hour to cook.
Postscript: The part about French Bread Pizza is over, but the funny doesn’t end there. I get out of the shower feeling quite waterlogged (I showered before class, too) but less wobbly. I’m now running late, but the quicker I could wash this stuff and eat, the sooner I could go. I got the detergent and a folded towel from the closet, brought them over next to the tub. Put the detergent down, placed the towel on the floor to kneel on and started to lower myself down to the towel holding the edge of the tub (because I was still so wobbly, I thought I would take extra precaution). I promptly slipped all the way down on the wet porcelain and almost busted my chin on the tub! What a spaz!