The day the store premiered, I also paced off the distance from my front yard to the Dunkin' Donuts entrance. It was less than 300 yards. I felt another shot of adrenalin. I hurried home and told my wife the good news. She feigned interest and told me I needed to "get a life."
Well, I've got a life all right . . . and it frequently includes a walk to Dunkin' Donuts. Walking there is exercise. And I feel an obligation to be neighborly. I should also point out that the waltz to and from Dunkin' Donuts burns substantial calories, and doing all of that exercise requires that I refuel with a coconut cake donut or a jelly-filled. Sometimes, I purchase a bag for the walk home which, again, is a substantial distance . . . like crossing the Sahara. People who frequent our road see me walking home often--the picture of health--and they honk and wave. Some of the neighbors have started calling me "the donut freak", but this is just a term of endearment and they mean no harm.
Sometimes after I have walked home with a bag of donuts and changed into a three piece Italian-cut suit, I visit the drive-through on my way to the office. I buy coffee and pretend I just came off the highway. I speak with a Saskatchewan accent and pretend I have never heard of Dunkin' Donuts in my life. The girl at the drive-up window always asks, "Say, didn't I see you in here just a few minutes ago?"
I tell her I have an ignorant Hoosier twin who eats donuts. "And while you're at it," I say, "let me try one of these donut concoctions you speak about, don't you know. Might go well with my coffee, Missy."
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