Malted Milk Ball Mini–Crisis

I can't even sneak one malted milk ball from the bulk section of the supermarket without a mini-crisis.  I've stopped in King Soopers market in Boulder, Colorado while on a quest to find my bike. I locked my bike to a metal rod in the snow down a path without a name at the head of a trail that was either called "Skunk" or "Goose." I played it casual –- "trusting the Universe to provide" like any Boulderite drinking coconut water would suggest.

So I get lost in the mountains and can't find my way back because I trusted the Universe and didn't use a map. And dammit, I didn't leave bread crumbs for myself. Honestly, I might not have used a map even if I thought I was caught in some evil vortex, and it was God's plan for me to get eaten by a Mountain Lion. I'm impulsive. I don't use recipes for baking, for example, and I don't separate lights and darks when I do laundry.

A trail eventually spits me out in the face of a bold–looking building called NIST. Does that stand for National Institute for Stranded Trailblazers? Probably not. So I wander for an hour trying to find my way back to my bike. As I wander, I remember that there was a sign on the metal rod to which I locked my bike that read "private property." Could it be that the property is so private it's invisible, and I'll never find it again? Maybe. I'll live. But what I really need is a snack. I don't have any cash. I go into King Soopers to the bulk section, lift the lever for a malted milk ball. I want one. Maybe two? That's all. Really. Anything more would be pushing it. But a dozen balls come rocketing out at me. I look left, then right. Nobody. I try stuffing the malted milk balls as fast as I can into my pockets, but my left pocket has a hole. Malted milk balls come rolling out from my pants at my ankle. And, of course, standing there when I look up is one of those grocers with the shiny name tag imprinted with a name like Stanley Kepling. Shit.

But honestly, I'm being dramatic.  The grocer laughed because he's had a malted milk ball crisis too. And, of course, I eventually found my bike, and I didn't get shot. And I made it home and ate some vegetables. Nobody likes stories that are anti climactic, but whatever. As native Coloradans would say, "yeah man, right on, for sure, it's all good."