The Scale, the Scowl, and the Drive-Thru Redemption
During my sophomore year at McKendree University—back when I still believed I could fix the world with a lesson plan and a overhead projector—I met a woman who would become one of the great loves of my life. Not the romantic kind. The kind that knows your secrets, your snack habits, and your soul. Nancy Mullens.
Nancy was brilliant. Sharp as a tack, blunt as a brick, and wrapped in a personality that could cut through nonsense like a hot knife through Velveeta. She had raised two sons: Rob, a high school basketball hero with a jump shot and magnetic personality, and Darin, who spent more time in and out of mental hospitals than most people spend in line at Starbucks. Her husband, Bill, was an alcoholic who somehow still managed to climb the ranks of the Air Force to Lt. Colonel—proof that you can be both deeply flawed and disturbingly functional. They’d lived everywhere: Alaska, the Philippines, a smattering of military bases, and finally landed in Lebanon, Illinois, where they bought a house - a charming place with good bones and questionable wallpaper. And Nancy, being the unapologetic curator of chaos and character, filled it with antiques that looked like they’d been rescued from every estate sale advertised since her family’s move to the Midwest.
Nancy’s midlife plot twist was deciding—at forty-something and fabulous—to go to college and become a high school English teacher. Because why not chase your dreams while juggling trauma, teenagers, and a husband who thought bourbon was a food group?
We met in Dr. Wanda Seifel’s Adolescent Psychology class. Dr. Seifel was a walking cautionary tale in high heals. She floated into class weekly in what can only be described as a pharmaceutical haze and spent the first fifteen minutes of every lecture talking about her toy poodle, Mabel. Mabel, who apparently begged for showers and had a more robust emotional life than most of the students in the room. Nancy leaned over during one of these canine monologues, mouthed “This lady is fucking crazy,” and I laughed so hard I snorted. Dr. Seifel paused, smiled like she’d just been validated by Oprah, and said, “I know, Robert. It’s hysterical, isn’t it?” Nancy’s eyes widened. We were bonded for life.
Fast forward to senior year. Nancy and I were student teaching and carrying the weight of the entire American education system on our backs—along with about 40 pounds of Dairy Queen. One afternoon, while sitting at her dining room table surrounded by lesson plans and existential dread, I noticed we’d each consumed four Buster Bars. Nancy sighed, looked at the wrappers like they’d betrayed her, and said, “We’re out of control.” I nodded, already halfway through my fifth.
She’d seen a commercial for a weight loss center in St. Louis. “We need to bite the bullet,” she said. “I’ve got money stashed away that Bill doesn’t even know about. I’ll make the appointment.” I was broke, bloated, and skeptical—but she was determined. “I’m a little afraid of the meds,” she said, “but I’m sure they’ll explain everything.”
Spoiler alert: they did not.
We arrived at the clinic, signed paperwork that looked suspiciously like a timeshare agreement, and were ushered into an exam room together. Odd, but we rolled with it. Then came the moment Nancy would never forgive: the nurse—who may have also been the janitor, receptionist, and part-time psychic—had Nancy step on the scale and announced, with the subtlety of a foghorn, “276!” Nancy turned beet red. I tried to look supportive while secretly thanking the gods of metabolism that I was 20 pounds lighter. She folded her arms like a pissed-off Greek goddess.
Then came the kicker. I asked about the medication. The nurse blinked. “Oh, there’s no medication. It’s a lifestyle program. Healthy eating, exercise, and behavior modification.” Nancy looked at me. I looked at her. We didn’t say a word. We just stood up and walked out like we were escaping a cult.
In the car, we laughed until we cried. Not because it was funny—though it was—but because we were two emotionally exhausted, carb and sugar-addicted educators who had just realized that the only thing we wanted less than exercise was accountability.
To soothe our wounded egos, we drove straight to Miss Hullings cafeteria in downtown St. Louis. I had fried chicken, double mac and cheese, cornbread, and banana pudding. Nancy had something equally therapeutic. It was the kind of meal that made you believe in carbs again.
As we pulled into Lebanon, Nancy said, “Drive through Dairy Queen. We need a bag of Buster Bars.” I didn’t even blink.
Nancy stayed in my life for years. She’s no longer with us, but I swear she’s somewhere in the spirit world, laughing at our ridiculousness and whispering, “Get the damn Buster Bar.” I hope heaven has a drive-thru. And I hope Mabel’s still begging for showers.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure—it’s that friendship, like fried chicken and sarcasm, is best served with a side of unconditional love.
This story belongs in the Empathy on Ice collection because sometimes the coldest truths—like your weight being announced in surround sound—deserve the warmest friendships. Nancy and I didn’t just share Buster Bars and belly laughs; we shared the kind of unfiltered honesty that melts shame faster than banana pudding on a summer dashboard. Empathy, after all, isn’t always soft—it’s sharp, sarcastic, and served with a side of fried chicken when the diet plan turns out to be a scam.