Why is eating liquid still this hard?
Is it just me, or is soup secretly judging us all?
Honestly, I’ve lived a respectable number of years on this earth. I can use a computer, walk dogs without falling over (mostly), and string together adult-level sentences — and yet, give me a bowl of soup or cereal, and suddenly I’m a dribbling mess. It’s as if the spoon conspires with gravity to make sure I never leave a meal without a small puddle on the table and a slightly damp chin.
I’ve tried everything.
Slurping delicately from the edge? Nope. All I get is a dramatic drop forming underneath the spoon like it’s about to audition for Cirque du Soleil — only to land squarely on my lap.
Taking the whole spoon into my mouth like a tactical scoop? That ends in a slow-motion dribble off my chin, as if the liquid’s making a final escape.
Tilting the bowl away from me, like all the etiquette guides say? That just lets the spoon travel further before betrayal.
Even the classic “wipe the bottom of the spoon on the bowl edge” trick fails me. It merely delays the inevitable. Like drying your hair in the rain.
And don’t get me started on soup with bits. I’ll bravely scoop up a chunk of potato only for the broth to vanish en route — a splash here, a smear there — and by the end, my serviette looks like it’s fought in a minor war.
I’ve begun to suspect I’m simply not meant for liquid-based meals. Maybe this is nature’s way of saying, “No more minestrone for you, Abbie.” Or perhaps spoons are just inherently flawed and we’ve all been too polite to admit it.
So to those of you who can eat soup gracefully, I salute you. You are the true elite. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here with a bib, a mop, and a deep sense of spoon-related betrayal.
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Don’t worry. It’s one of your charms!
Hahaha, nice to know I can dribble among friends