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Today I woke up with one thought in my head.

This is only worth noting because normally I have a series of them, you know?  A list of left-over to do’s, an estimation of how many times I can hit snooze before actually waking up, a mental closet scan, blah blah.  But today I only had one:

I want a macaron.

Which is weird, because the little almond-meal patisseries have never really been my thing.  Probably because by the time fashions bloggers & their instagrams started making them so posh, I was living in a town that didn’t have anyone who could make them and so I brushed them off as “city delicacy” or as something I would stumble upon and enjoy one day when I was in a city that had a Laudree (NYC / Paris).

Anyway, I woke up wanting one.  More specifically, I wanted one that was going to match my outfit of the day that had yet to be decided on.  I wanted one, I wanted it to match my outfit, and I wanted to enjoy it the way posh people on the internet are supposed to enjoy posh things like macarons; on a park bench between the hours of 11:30 and 1PM with a view of the skyline and a view of men in expensive suits who look like their all going to go home to women who would be sitting on a park bench in the middle of the city between the hours of 11:30am and 1pm eating a fashionably-forward thing like a macaron.  And as I sat straight up in bed and flicked the sheets off of me I specifically set the intention of finding one of these little treats because, DAMMIT, the city was my proverbial oyster!  And mostly, because my instagram was completely incompetent without at least one colorful little merengie-y thing-y in a Lo-Fi filter.

Google: Vancouver Macarons

Easy enough, I thought to myself as I carefully selected the macaron provider closest to what I know to be the largest yuppy business district in the city.  I had to go down there anyway to take a temp job for my Dad who happens to have an office out of this area but close enough that it still makes me feel urban-professional enough.

My plan was flawless.

Enter said yuppy business district wearing clothing that a young, urban, professional would wear, stroll calmly but assertively into said macaron shop, purchase said macaron(s), sit on city central park bench with view of skyline and suited men, eat macaron(s) confidently in broad daylight looking like a chic woman who enjoys her lunch breaks to herself and then calmly and assertively walk to work.

Now, I’ll admit, most people wouldn’t have to divulge a scheme quite so extraordinary in order to get their chubby little fingers on one stupid little dessert, but I am not most people and if anything, I’m a bit odd.  So pardon me, and let me continue.

I reached my destination without a hitch.  Brilliant sunshine lit up the harbor and I kept thinking to myself as I swished along in my perfectly business appropriate but also totally chic dress “Gee, what a wonderful day for a macaron lunch!” “I am so Carrie Bradshaw right now, taking a macaron lunch!” “Kate Spade would totally agree with this magnificent afternoon macaron stroll!”

As I walked up to the all-white macaron shop I caught myself rehearsing a script: “oh, hi there, yes, I’d like a macaron please.  Pink grapefruit.  Thank you.”

It shouldn’t be necessary to rehearse a script before buying a snack, but this is an elite snack and even the doily little metal chairs out front made me nervous – in my head I’m all “is it macaron or macaroon?  And are they one in the same or is the difference between Paris-French and Canadian-French?”

Let me tell you the first thing I learned about macarons.  They’re a lot smaller in real life than what you would imagine by following Katie Armour’s Twitter.  Oh, and you can’t just buy one.  You have to buy six and it’s going to cost you twelve dollars.  And no one in their right mind is going to want 6 macarons because you just can’t eat six to yourself and no one is going to want one because no one that isn’t obsessed with the internet even knows what a macaron is let alone would they choose to try a dessert that is flavored after a flower that grows on a tree (cherry blossom.  Rose blossom.  Lavender sprig.)

But I bought six and I spent twelve dollars and she packaged up my plant-flavored circular sponges and put them in this very fancy little box that, in hindsight, I should have watched her fold shut.

“Thank you so very much” I said in my very best Eloise voice.

As I strolled along the harbour-side with my petite little treat box, humming John Mayer tunes, I spied the perfect bench.  Overlooking not only the skyline, but the marina.  I sat down and I took it all in.

This was the last moment I would ever consider buying macarons again.

As I looked out over the water I was greeted not by lunch-break lawyers in Hugo Boss, but by a shirtless, buff, twenty-something marina worker spraying himself and some 140 foot white whale of a boat with a twenty-foot hose.  Not complaining, it was just an adjustment of vision.

I looked down at the box in my lap and began to open it.  And then began to open it.  And then turned it around and began to open it the other way.  Then I tried to open the ends.  And after six or seven tries I realized the box was folded about four times over itself and I finally was able to loosen it enough to peer inside.

Frustrated, hot, and wearing completely the wrong thing to impress Mark the Marina Man I peered inside at my six, tiny, colorful blobs. They were macarons alright, but I didn’t want them.

The smell of street vendor hot dogs filled the air and I scrounged my purse for $3.50 fully aware of the fact that I spend all my change on these butterfly turds.  I settled for the only flavor of macaron I had chosen that resembled food: pink grapefruit.

And let me tell you, it was no fucking hot dog.

I did up the Chinese Finger Trap box and speed-walked past the dog stand.  I speed-walked (sped-walked?) so fast that a mere 300 feet from my work place I felt a sharp pain in my big toe and said “Ow” out loud.

I looked down.

My chic “I could have just left my Louboutin’s under my office desk and slipped these cute little flats on for my lunch break”  $1.99 Mexican walking shoes had done so much walking outside of Mexico that my entire toe was hanging out of the left one.  Scraped and bloodied from my battle with the concrete Jungle.

Now not only was I wearing hobo shoes, I was carrying a box of ridiculous edible Christmas ornaments that cost more than an entire other pair of Mexican walking shoes.

So I did what anyone would do.  I sat down on a cement block and shoved four of the five remaining macarons in my mouth, complaining the entire time of my sweet tooth hurting.

My Father came and rescued me off the side of the road.

“What are those?” He asked once we reached the office, looking at my battered but still dainty dessert box.

“Macarons.  These silly little pointless parisienne pastry-desserty-things.  Want the last one?”

He took it from me and had a bite.

“MMM” he said, and walked away.

& guess what I found in the garbage can twenty minutes later?

3/4 of a two dollar fucking macaron.