The Incident of the Chocolate Milk

On Saturday night, Jared and I went to a benefit dinner (courtesy of my illustrious employer, as usual). I had been having twinges of a headache all afternoon, but I was pretty busy watching TV and playing with Jared's iPod and I never quite got around to taking anything for it before we left. I figured I'd be all right, but about half an hour into the festivities, I was in head-splitting pain. Jared noticed I was experiencing some discomfort; he volunteered to go track down some pain meds for me and then disappeared. I had no idea what he was planning, but he's a resourceful chap, so I assumed he would figure something out and I was really too uncomfortable to care much how he managed it.

A little while later, Jared reappeared triumphantly with the kill -- several single-dose packets of ibuprofen and, for reasons which are unclear, two small plastic containers of chocolate milk. He placed these ceremoniously right next to our wine glasses. This drew more than a few strange looks from our fellow diners; maybe they thought he'd run down to the corner store at my insistence to bring me chocolate milk. Whatever the case, the guy to his right didn't speak another word to him all night.

These past few months have taught me a thing or two; I opted not to ask any questions and decided instead to behave as though this were a normal part of our formal evenings out. Not until we were on our way home did I inquire as to the origins of the pint-sized chocolate milk.

It turns out that Jared had randomly approached the first official-looking employee he ran into outside the banquet hall. This turned out to be the hotel manager, who was kind enough to escort him back to the hotel first aid supply to get him some pain medicine. On the way there, Jared happened to notice that the employee break room was well stocked with, among other things, what appeared to be free milk. Never one to be shy, he unabashedly asked for a couple of those, too. (He may have mentioned something about having paid a thousand dollars for his seat. I am still unclear on this point.) Thanks for taking care of it, Pork Chop; a girl can always count on you.