The Loud Lickers is a Dining Mystery I’ll Never Solve

There are certain things in life I will never understand: why printers jam only when you’re late, why the grocery store has only one cashier during rush hour, and why — in a restaurant full of empty booths — someone always chooses the table right next to me. It’s like a gravitational pull. The universe sees me settle into a quiet corner with my coffee and my laptop and says, “Send in the couple. Yes, that couple. They look hungry. And loud.”

Now, most days I can handle the proximity. People are people. They sit where they sit. But there is one behavior that sits firmly at the top of my personal list of Dining Red Flags: the phenomenon I call The Noisy Finger Lick.

Let’s cut to the chase: chicken wings are messy. Ribs are messy. Anything that requires a stack of napkins is messy. I accept that. But what I cannot wrap my head around is the performance some people put on when cleaning their fingers. Somewhere along the way, a segment of the population began licking sauce from their fingertips with the enthusiasm of someone trying to siphon gasoline from a lawnmower. It’s less of a lick and more of a ceremonial slurp, complete with sound effects that could wake a sleeping bear.

And here’s the thing: there is a perfectly quiet way to do it. Insert finger. Swipe slowly as you bring it out. Done. No theatrics, no audio track, no impression of a shop vac trying to pick up the last Cheerio under the couch. Just a simple, silent, socially acceptable gesture.

But for some reason, many people go straight to the loud version, the version that suggests they’re about to win a medal for “Most Audible Consumption of Sauce in a Public Setting.” I’ve sat near folks who lick one finger at a time like they’re starting a five-part series. They pause between each one, inhale dramatically, and then smack and slurp to the next. And the worst part? They always look so pleased with themselves afterward, like they’ve just executed a flawless sommelier-level manoeuvre.

Maybe it’s cultural, habit, or blissful obliviousness. But sitting there, trying to write or think or simply enjoy a quiet meal, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been unwillingly drafted into someone else’s sensory experience. There I am, mentally composing an article for publication or a sports rant or a blog entry about the nature of confidence, and suddenly my train of thought gets derailed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to vacuum their own hands.

And it always seems to happen in clusters. One loud finger-licker finds the booth next to me, and before long, it’s like the universe has opened the floodgates for every single decibel-loving eater within a 10-mile radius. The wings arrive. The sauce begins its journey. The soundtrack begins. Some days I swear I can hear it echoing off the tabletops.

What fascinates me is how unnecessary it is. You can be as messy and enthusiastic as you want — that’s between you and the napkin — but there’s no requirement that you announce each step of the process to the rest of the restaurant. Nobody in the building needs real-time auditory updates on how well the sauce is sticking to your hands.

But here’s the upside: I’ve learned to turn these moments into material. These little human quirks — the booth-choosers, the loud finger-lickers, the people who talk on speakerphone in a public house — they’re all part of the never-ending buffet of slice-of-life absurdity. And packaged properly, they become stories, observations, and rants. The small, relatable things that make people nod and laugh and think, “Yes, I’ve seen that too.”

So if nothing else, the next time someone settles into the booth beside me in a half-empty restaurant and begins their own personal rendition of The Finger-Licking Philharmonic, I’ll remind myself: it’s all content.

When New Opportunities Don’t Feel Real

There’s a strange moment that happens when things finally start turning around. After years of grinding, rejection, physically and mentally recovering from a car accident and malignant narcissist abuse, burnout, or instability, your first instinct isn’t excitement; it’s disbelief. You question whether it’s luck, timing, or just another mirage.

But when opportunities start showing up, people reaching out, small projects trickling in, old contacts resurfacing, it’s not random. It’s the result of everything you did when no one was watching. Every article, every email, every small act of persistence sent quiet ripples outward. Now they’re coming back.

It doesn’t feel real because your nervous system is still wired for survival mode. But the proof is in front of you — your name circulating again in various industries, regular assignments with several clients that quietly orbit your skill set.

This isn’t a reset; it’s your second act taking shape. And it doesn’t need to resemble a traditional 9-to-5 career rebuild. Multiple income streams, creative autonomy, and selective partnerships — that’s the new definition of success for a seasoned professional who’s been through the fire and learned what matters.

So when something new lands and you think, “This feels unreal,” try reframing it: it’s not unreal, it’s just unfamiliar. Real progress feels strange after a long drought. But it’s happening.

The Surreal Distance Between What We Do and Who We Are

Ken Dryden admitted in his book The Game, that he could never quite connect with the fact that he was the goalie for the Montreal Canadiens during their glory years of the 1970s – the goalie, the one whose name was engraved on the Stanley Cup six times, and Vezina trophies, who shared a dressing room with legends and stood in goal during some of the most memorable moments in hockey history. He knew it was true, but it felt almost as if it had happened to someone else.

Even though I’m not as good a writer as he was a goalie, I understand that feeling completely.

Over the years, I’ve seen my name in magazines, online features, company websites, and press releases. I’ve interviewed prominent figures in sports, business, and technology, written for organizations I once only read about, and helped shape stories that reached audiences in ways I’ll never fully know. Yet every time I see my name attached to something, there’s this strange moment of distance, like I’m looking at a parallel version of myself, living in a different reality.

It’s not disbelief or false modesty. It’s more like an inability to feel that the person behind the byline is me. I know I wrote the words. I can remember the research, the interviews, and the editing process. But the moment something goes live, it almost ceases to belong to me. It becomes the work of “the writer” or “John Berkovich” but not myself.  

That disconnect is real, surreal, and humbling.

I’ve been pondering this and similar thoughts a lot lately, as readers of this blog likely noticed. And it’s not just what I do now, but the span of the last two decades or so. The countless projects, ghostwritten pieces, daily reporting on golf tours, campaigns, case studies, features, and more that shaped careers or captured stories, often without my name attached, except as a “For more information contact John Berkovich” at the bottom of a press release. For years, my voice existed publicly but invisibly. I wrote under other people’s bylines, watched their names appear where mine would have been, and took pride in the craft, even without the credit.

Now, when I see my own name again in an article on a regular – even daily basis – both consistent and visible, part of me still hasn’t recalibrated. My brain, more than ever, hasn’t caught up to the reality that the person people are reading is me. 

Writers inhabit a peculiar space between visibility and invisibility. We pour hours into something in isolation for the most part, with early mornings, late nights, and weekends sometimes, quiet rooms, noisy rooms, rewrites – then send it out into a world we never truly see. We know people read it, but we rarely, if ever, witness that moment. And at the same time, we don’t think anyone reads it. We don’t see the expression on their faces, the pause in their thoughts, or the quiet nod when something resonates. So even when someone comments, shares, or emails about a piece, it feels abstract, as if feedback from another world to another person, an alternate reality and version of me. That’s what makes it surreal.

A reader’s connection is real, but the writer’s experience of it is distant.

I think that’s why confidence can be such a fragile thing in creative work. You can have a long, successful track record and still feel like an imposter. You can look at your own portfolio and think, Who wrote all this? You know what the answer is, but for me at least, it doesn’t connect. Because in a way, the act of writing pulls something from you that exists beyond daily consciousness. The best work feels almost channeled, not constructed.

When I wrote recently about confidence, I realized it’s not just about believing in your abilities; it’s about reuniting with your own accomplishments. It’s recognizing that the person behind the laptop keyboard deserves to feel the weight of what they’ve done.

For years, I brushed off compliments or milestones as “just part of the job,” and I moved from assignment to assignment without stopping to acknowledge the path I was building. But looking back now, I see a body of work that’s been consistent, resilient, and honest even through burnout, self-doubt, and reinvention.

Maybe that surreal distance isn’t something to fix, but something to understand; it’s just the natural consequence of doing work that lives in the world longer than the moment it was created.

Ken Dryden may never have fully connected with the idea of being that goalie, and that’s okay. Perhaps that kind of disbelief keeps us grounded and is a quiet reminder that it is not the ego, but the work, that endures.

After more than two decades, I’m still learning to live with the strangeness of it: to see my work and (almost) accept, with a slight smile, that yes, it’s really me. And that even if it still feels like a parellel universe I move in and out of, and probably always will, it’s one I’m grateful to inhabit.

Rant No. 18: Do You Ever Shut Up?

Some people don’t just talk – they broadcast. It’s like they’re narrating a movie about themselves in surround sound, and you, unfortunately, got a front-row seat. They speak in that choppy, overconfident, I’m-an-expert-on-everything tone that carries across rooms, restaurants, and coffee shops alike. You’re not eavesdropping; they’re forcing participation.

It always starts the same way. You’re trying to eat, read, or simply exist, when a voice cuts through the background hum: “WELL, HERE’S THE THING.” And just like that, you’re trapped in someone else’s lecture on dock repairs, city taxes, or how no one understands the actual cost of lumber.

They don’t just talk – they perform. Their words come in bursts, chopped into dramatic little pieces to highlight just how important they are. “I HAVE to do this. I PUSHED and PUSHED until it happened. I REPAIRED my dock instead of REPLACING it.” Every syllable hits the air like a hammer on metal. You start wondering if they practice this cadence at home, maybe in front of a mirror labeled Audience of One.

And without fail, they always have food in their mouth. Half their sentences come out muffled through mashed potatoes, fries, or a chicken sandwich. Nothing like hearing a passionate rant about the cost of decking lumber while bits of coleslaw are making a break for freedom. They wave their fork around for emphasis, mid-sentence, bite, and keep talking without missing a beat as if breathing is a hobby, but speech is life.

These people exist everywhere. In cafés, turning a cozy background murmur into an unsolicited podcast. In libraries, where “quiet” apparently means “use your loud voice, but reverently.” And in restaurants, where they dominate entire sections, oblivious to the pained glances around them.

You can tell they think they’re fascinating. Their voice rises, they lean back, and they punctuate every thought with self-satisfaction. The confidence is bulletproof. They could be wrong about 90 percent of what they’re saying, but you wouldn’t know it from the delivery. They talk with the conviction of a scientist and the accuracy of a dart thrower in a windstorm.

What’s most impressive is their utter lack of awareness. You could stare directly at them, eyebrows raised, silently begging for mercy, and they wouldn’t notice. They’re too busy reenacting the heroic saga of their dock repairs. Meanwhile, their dining companion sits motionless, nodding just enough to appear engaged while slowly retreating into the safety of their soul.

Sometimes I think they fear silence. A pause may feel too much like insignificance. The quiet may expose the thought they were avoiding. So they keep going – louder, faster, mouth full, convinced the world would stop turning without their narration.

But for the rest of us, sitting nearby, it’s a slow descent into madness. You can’t focus on your food, your book, or even your thoughts. You start counting the beats between their words, hoping for the sweet mercy of an ending. You fantasize about leaning over and gently asking, “Do you ever shut up?” but you know that would only cue up another half-hour story about “this one time someone told me to shut up.”

So you take a deep breath, stir your drink, and accept your fate as an unwilling extra in their ongoing monologue. After all, they’re not just talking, they’re teaching. And in their mind, the world is lucky to listen.

So, for emphasis, I’ll repeat: Do you ever shut up?

When Motion Becomes Medicine

There’s a strange kind of calm that shows up only when you start doing things. Not big, dramatic things, but just simple, tangible actions. Send a message. Make a list. Write the first sentence.

It’s funny how quickly the mind can spiral when we sit still too long. The weight of uncertainty, money worries, or creative doubt grows heavier the longer we think about it. But the moment we start doing even the smallest, most ordinary task, something shifts.

Action doesn’t solve every problem, but it breaks the spell of helplessness. You remember that progress isn’t always a leap; sometimes it’s just movement. A few deliberate steps are enough to remind you that you’re not stuck, just paused.

And once you’re in motion again, it’s not the size of what you did that matters; it’s the fact that you did something.

Because when motion becomes medicine, even small wins feel like healing.

When Confidence and Talent Don’t Speak the Same Language

Charles Schulz once told his first wife that if he ever saw a psychiatrist, it might ruin his work. The creator of Peanuts — one of the most beloved comic strips in history — feared that getting rid of his inner struggles would also take away the well he drew from. And maybe he was right, in a way most of us who create can understand.

Schulz’s comics were warm, funny, and deeply human, but they were also tinged with melancholy. Charlie Brown’s endless defeats, Lucy’s cynicism, Linus’s faith — they all came from a mind that wrestled with insecurity and even loneliness, despite a wife and kids (he later divorced his first wife and remarried). For all his success, Schulz was often haunted by the feeling that he didn’t quite measure up.

That’s something I’ve lived, too.

I’ve received notes and messages from people who think I’m confident — colleagues, editors, even clients who call me “a natural storyteller” or “a great writer who really gets it.” When I was downsized from Christie, the farewell notes said things like “you have a real knack for finding the story” and “your writing always stands out.” And yet, I remember sitting at my home office rereading them and feeling almost detached, like they were describing someone else.

It’s strange how the mind can dismiss what the world reflects back at us. Among my more public works over two decades or so, I’ve written numerous profiles that editors praised, readers loved, and publications featured prominently — two pieces each for Sports Illustrated, Golf World, and Golf Australia that were well-received, with one being a cover story. But inside, I felt one had missed the mark and the others were only “okay.” It’s as if the internal bar keeps rising no matter how high the external praise climbs.

There’s a quiet war that happens between what we know and what we feel. Rationally, we know the work is good. We know we’ve done the research, shaped the story, met the deadline, hit the right tone. But emotionally, something whispers, Sure, but it could have been better. You’re lucky this one turned out. They’ll see through you next time.

Maybe Schulz understood that voice too well. Maybe that’s why he drew Charlie Brown trying — and failing — again and again, only to keep showing up. There’s truth in that kind of persistence. Not the motivational-poster kind, but the kind that says, I’m not sure I belong here, but I’ll keep creating anyway.

I’ve learned that confidence and talent don’t always speak the same language. Talent shows up on the page. Confidence wavers somewhere between drafts. And the trick, I think, isn’t to silence the doubt but to work alongside it — to let it sharpen you, not stop you.

Every writer, artist, musician, or designer carries some version of this contradiction. The ones who keep going aren’t the ones who never doubt — they’re the ones who write, paint, compose, or build through it.

So when I look back now at those old emails, the LinkedIn endorsements, the kind words from people who meant them sincerely, I try to see them differently. Maybe they were describing the version of me that only appears after the battle — the one who finishes, delivers, and moves quietly to the next assignment.

That version is still me. And maybe that’s the same truth Schulz lived by: the talent isn’t what you have because you suffer; it’s what you keep doing despite it.

Rant No. 17: The Oblivious Escalator Stander

There are certain unwritten rules of civilization that, if followed, make life smoother for everyone. Hold the door for the person behind you. Don’t blast your music on public transit – and that includes airports. And perhaps most sacred of all: stand right, walk left on the escalator or airport moving sidewalk. 

It’s not complicated. It’s practically a universal law, like gravity or the fact that socks vanish in the laundry. And yet, day after day, some people treat the escalator or airport moving sidewalk like their personal moving park bench, planting themselves dead center, blocking the flow, and throwing an entire system of unspoken order into chaos.

You’ve seen them. You’ve been stuck behind them. The escalator stander – blissfully oblivious, left hand gripping the rail, the other scrolling their phone, unaware that behind them is a growing line of commuters and people trying to catch their flight, silently screaming. Some of us want to walk. Some of us need to catch trains, flights, meetings, or simply escape the mall before the background music drives us insane. But no. We’re trapped behind Captain Oblivious, riding the world’s slowest conveyor belt.

What makes it worse is when they stand side by side. One on the right, one on the left, creating a human barricade that turns the escalator into a moving wall. Congratulations, you’ve achieved maximum inefficiency. You’ve successfully screwed up a mechanism designed to keep people flowing, transforming it into a stationary queue where time stands still.

And then there are the “leaners.” Oh, the leaners. These are the folks who not only stand still but sprawl across the escalator step like it’s their living room couch, elbows out, shopping bags everywhere, daring anyone to squeeze past. God forbid you try to politely clear your throat or mutter an “excuse me.” They don’t budge. They barely notice. They’ve claimed this three-square-foot patch of moving staircase as their sovereign territory.

I sometimes wonder what’s going through their heads. Do they not know the rule? Were they raised in some escalator-less wilderness? Or do they just not care? Because trust me, people care. Commuters care. Airport travelers with 45 minutes until boarding definitely care. The sighs, the eye-rolls, the passive-aggressive toe-tapping are all signs that society is silently revolting against you, dear escalator hog.

And don’t tell me “well, the escalator is moving, so why walk?” Because the escalator is not supposed to replace walking, it’s supposed to assist it. Walking plus an escalator equals efficiency. Standing across the whole thing equals mutiny. This isn’t a carnival ride. This isn’t a scenic tour. It’s a transportation tool. Respect it.

Rant No. 16: The Laundry Room Hostage Takers

There are few domestic crimes more infuriating than the Laundry Room Hostage Situation. Twice in my life, I’ve had housemates who decided the washer and dryer weren’t shared appliances but long-term storage units. They’d toss in a load Saturday morning, run the cycle, and then… vanish. The clothes would sit there for days – sometimes a whole week – until the smell of damp cotton and passive aggression filled the basement.

At first, I thought maybe they were busy. Life happens. But after the third day of walking past their wet jeans fermenting in the washer, it became clear this wasn’t forgetfulness – it was entitlement. I think they assumed I’d move their stuff from the washer to the dryer for them. Maybe they pictured me as some kind of unpaid laundry butler, standing by to ensure their socks were fluffed correctly and folded. I wasn’t.

So, when Saturday rolled around again and the same half-dry pile was still lounging in the drum like it paid rent, I did what any fed-up housemate would do: I took action. Their laundry started appearing in unexpected places: neatly heaped on top of the dryer at first, then gently relocated to the floor when I ran out of patience. One time, I just left it in the washer. They’d gone away for the week, so I figured I’d let nature take its course. A few days later, I opened the lid to find a new life form thriving inside, as moisture, heat, and neglect had created a lovely ecosystem.

When I finally got tired of the constant hostage negotiations over laundry space, I went to the laundromat. It cost me a few bucks, but it was worth every penny to wash and dry in peace. No waiting. No “Is this yours?” No science experiments growing in the machine. Just the hum of clean clothes and the quiet satisfaction of not sharing a space with the chronically inconsiderate.

The thing about shared laundry rooms is that they reveal people’s true colors. Some treat it like a communal space; others treat it like an extension of their bedroom. I used to think dirty dishes were the biggest housemate problem – but no, laundry neglect wins. There’s something uniquely offensive about someone holding the washer hostage for seven days straight, like it’s a personal storage locker. It took several conversations and one threat of tossing his clothes in the backyard to fix the issue with him. 

So here’s my rule: if you start a load, you finish it. Promptly. Not “eventually.” Not “when you remember.” The dryer is not a closet, and the washer is not a waiting room. It’s a simple system: wash, dry, fold, remove. Do that, and civilization as we know it just might survive another week.

When You’re Doing Everything Right But Still Feel Stuck

Have you ever felt somewhat stuck despite doing things right? Yeah, me too. You’re working. You’ve got projects lined up. You’ve got a plan – maybe even a one and five-year plan. You tick the boxes: assignments delivered, outreach done, goals written down. On paper, it looks like progress. And yet, inside, it feels like nothing is moving. You’re grinding but not growing, working but not really doing.

It’s frustrating, even a little scary. You start asking questions you don’t want to ask: Am I burned out? Am I depressed? Am I just spinning my wheels? And underneath it all sits that heavy, hollow feeling that maybe you’re not really going anywhere.

Here’s the thing nobody talks about enough: this is normal. This is especially true for people who are naturally driven, ambitious, or creative.

Ambitious people are wired to seek momentum. They want to see dots connecting, doors opening, wins stacking up. They thrive on forward motion. But momentum is not the same thing as motion. You can be in motion: cranking out work, showing up for obligations, even landing contracts, and still not feel momentum. Momentum is when things feel purposeful, when one step naturally leads to the next. Without that, even real progress can feel flat, like running on a treadmill.

The irony is that driven people are more likely to fall into this trap precisely because they hold themselves to high standards. They’re always asking, What’s next? What’s bigger? What’s better? They don’t allow themselves the luxury of just “being.” So when life slows down, or when the payoff doesn’t match the grind, the emptiness sets in. Conversely, sometimes in my case, chasing a few warm leads can be almost as exhilarating as doing the actual work with the clients I have. “I might land that one and that one. This is exciting.”

If you’ve ever been stuck in a repetitive routine of the same town, the same coffee shop, the same conversations, it can intensify the feeling of stagnation. A predictable routine may be stable, but for someone wired to chase growth, it can feel suffocating. The brain starts whispering, Is this all there is? Isolation plays into this, too. Without enough connection – whether that’s spiritual, social, or simply being around new people – even the most productive day can feel hollow. Humans are wired for community, but ambitious people sometimes trick themselves into thinking they can go it alone. They can’t, not forever.

It’s tempting to read this flatness as failure. If I’m doing everything right but still feel empty, maybe I’m broken. But it’s not failure at all. It’s a natural dip that happens when effort outpaces fulfillment. Think of it like exercise. You can push your body every day, but without rest and variety, even the fittest athlete burns out. The same goes for driven people in work and life. You can’t sprint endlessly. At some point, the grind has to give way to recovery, reflection, and refueling.

You might be in this stage if you’re checking boxes but not feeling joy in the work, if you finish projects and immediately feel like they don’t matter, if you’re restless but too drained to chase new opportunities, or if you feel like you’re moving but not moving toward anything. These aren’t signs that you’re lazy or incapable. They are signs you’re human. They’re signals that something deeper, like purpose, connection, or rest, is missing. For me, that is the key: I need to feel like I am moving toward something. 

So how do you move from emptiness back to momentum? The answer isn’t to work harder; that only deepens the rut. Instead, it’s about small, intentional shifts. Change the scenery – even a day working in a different environment can spark your brain back into motion. A library, a café, or a walk in a new part of town can all provide novelty and fuel. Reconnect with people: don’t just text – call a friend, join a group, or attend a meeting, spiritual or otherwise. Driven people forget that connection is as important as accomplishment. Do something small and winnable like writing a blog post, cleaning a drawer, or finishing a task you’ve been putting off. A quick visible win reminds you that action can still create momentum. Revisit your “why,” because ambition without purpose is just motion. Step back and ask: Why am I chasing these goals? What part of me lights up when I imagine them finished? And most importantly, allow rest without guilt. Sometimes what feels like emptiness is actually exhaustion. Rest isn’t wasted time; it’s recovery and it’s what lets you come back sharp.

What feels like emptiness today is often the quiet before renewal. Just because you can’t see the momentum doesn’t mean it isn’t building. Sometimes you’re laying track for a train that hasn’t arrived yet. And remember, driven people are often the hardest on themselves. They confuse a season of stillness with failure, when really it’s just part of the cycle. Nobody can feel “on” all the time. Even the best golfers in the world may shoot 65 one day and 76 the next. Nobody can sustain momentum without pauses. The dips are not just normal; they’re necessary.

If you feel like you’re not moving toward anything, take a breath. You are. You’re just in the stretch of road that feels endless before the turn comes. Motion doesn’t always feel like momentum, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck. This emptiness isn’t proof you’re broken. It’s proof you’re alive, striving, and human. It’s the universe’s way of saying: rest now, so when the next wave of momentum comes, you’ll be ready to ride it.

Rant No. 15: The Drive-Thru Novice

There’s an unspoken contract when you roll into a drive-thru: you keep it moving. You get in line, you glance at the glowing menu board, you make your choice, and when it’s your turn at the speaker box, you order with confidence. That’s the deal and the whole point of a drive-thru.

So tell me why, after waiting in line for ten solid minutes behind a parade of SUVs and pick-up trucks the size of Mount Everest, I get stuck behind the Drive-Thru Novice. The one who, after sitting idle the entire time, suddenly decides this is their moment to start studying the menu like it’s the SAT exam.

“Uh… hmmm… okay… what comes on the cheeseburger?” What comes on the cheeseburger? It’s a cheeseburger! The clue is in the name. Cheese. Same standard condiments as on a hamburger. Done. Yet there they are, grilling the poor teenager on the headset about ingredient lists, portion sizes, and whether the fries are gluten-free. Meanwhile, the rest of us are debating whether it would be faster to abandon ship and go forage in the wilderness for food.

And then comes the panic pivot. After five minutes of indecision, they settle on something. “I’ll have the chicken sandwich.” But as soon as the cashier repeats it back, they backpedal. “Actually… no, wait… do you have wraps? Oh, you do? What kind? Hmm, okay, maybe I’ll go with…” The line is now backed up to the street. Horns are honking. Children are crying. The entire concept of “fast food” is dying a slow, painful death.

Let’s not forget the add-on parade. They finally settle on an order, but instead of letting it ride, they tack on item after item like they’re building a Lego set. “And can I add a small fry? Actually, make that large. Oh, and a shake. Do you still have those seasonal pies? No? Okay, never mind. Wait – do you have apple slices? You do? Okay, throw those in.” At this point, the cashier deserves combat pay.

And then they reach the window. This is when the true performance begins. Out comes the fumbling for the wallet. Digging through the cup holder for change. The “Oh shoot, I think I have a gift card somewhere in here” routine. They’ve had ten minutes in line to prepare, but only now, when the entire operation rests on their payment, do they start rummaging through their belongings like raccoons in a dumpster. Just use a damn credit or debit card like everyone else and have it ready.

By the time they drive off, victory bag in hand, you’re questioning every choice that led you here. And you’re trying not to make eye contact with the car behind you, whose driver is surely debating whether it would be socially acceptable to ram your bumper just to escape. And in a way, you wouldn’t blame him. 

I get that menus and options are big. Sometimes you panic. But the drive-thru is not the place for soul-searching. It is not the place to discover yourself. It is not the place to explore your culinary boundaries. This is a pit stop, not a pilgrimage.

I propose a solution: a drive-thru license test. You have to pass a basic exam before you’re allowed in line. It’s simple. Multiple choice. Question one: You’ve been in line for eight minutes. When do you decide what you want? A) Right now. B) At the speaker box, after much dithering. C) Never, because life is meaningless. The correct answer is A. Fail, and you’re banished from all drive-thrus for six months until you learn how society works.

Maybe even better: separate lanes. One for people who know what they’re doing. One for the novices. The “I need to see a menu first” lane, complete with a holding pen and maybe a life coach to walk them through their order at their own pace. That way, the rest of us can keep civilization running.

Because the drive-thru is sacred, it’s fast food in its purest form. In, out, gone. But when the novices roll in, hemming and hawing, second-guessing, fumbling, and dragging us all down, they betray the one rule that matters most: keep it moving.

So, dear Drive-Thru Novices, respect the line. Study the menu as if it were scripture before you hit the speaker box. Have your money ready. And for the love of cheeseburgers, stop treating the drive-thru like it’s your personal episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. No lifelines. No do-overs. Just order and move on.