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# The Worst
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/the-worst/
- Published: 2026-05-11T11:10:28.000Z
- Updated: 2026-05-11T11:10:28.000Z
- Description: “The Worst,” a participant-observation of living with food intolerances while being in public. Written Monday, May 11, poem 131 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Statue of shame," legs framed in a mini fridge at a local ice cream shoppe, by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Poems, 20% tip, Allergies, Allergy Protocol, Annoyance, Apple Pay, Burden, Customer Experience, Dude, Family, Family Night Out, Food allergy, Food intolerance, Garage, Ice Cream, Ice cream scoop, Ice cream shoppe, Involuntary Non-Participation, Just Desserts, Kindness, May, Men, Mockery, Othered, Outing, Oxygen, Servers, Shame, Spring, Statue, The Customer Is Always Wrong, The Worst!, Ugh, Waiting, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

"Good evening, hi!  
I would love a scoop of cherry," I point.  
"And, um, may I have a clean scoop,   
and 'allergy protocol'?"  
  
I ask timidly, quietly,   
of the server behind the counter,   
separated from me   
by two cheery rows of ice cream.  
  
"What??" He scoffs.  
He looks across the freezer from me,   
and grimaces.   
  
His face colors with contempt.   
In case I could not read his expression,   
he added an unavoidable:  
"UGH!"  
  
I startle, as he groans further:   
"*Ugh*, I don't know — *CRAIGGGG*!!!"   
He calls for his colleague.   
  
"Dude, I don't — she asked for — dude *take* 'this' for me."   
He points at 'this.'  
'This,' is me.   
I am feeling a burden, already.  
  
Hopefully Craig will come to my aid.  
But I am not so lucky, for Craig exclaims,   
"MAN! I always get THE WORST ONES."  
  
The Worst One —   
me, apparently.  
He sighs heavily,   
while the first server scurries away.  
  
"Are you *sure*?   
This is going to take   
— like —   
ten to fifteen *MINUTES*."   
  
\[The number of times women are asked, "Are you *sure?*" Is unfathomable. But I digress.\]  
  
"Minutes."   
He threatens.  
As in,   
*Don't say yes, don't you even dare.*  
  
"Yes, yes, I am sure, please and thank you,   
so much, *really*, so much, I appreciate it."   
I reply.  
  
I look across into his eyes,   
give a *please, really, sir,* look.   
I am earnest, pleading.  
  
I muster a slim sideways smile, to indicate:  
*I know I know I know this is extra work, and please,* *I get it, I'm annoying, and I see you, and I know you have other customers, and yet here I am, in line, and it is now my turn, and I am still excited to eat your famous product. I am jazzed to be here, despite present circumstances! Thank you for your service!*  
  
He rolls his eyes dramatically,   
with such gusto I am sure they will ache the next morning.   
He stops speaking to me.   
  
I take that as a cue.  
I siddle over to the counter,   
pay the first attendant via Apple Pay,  
slowly raise my finger to pick   
the "20%" tip button.  
  
In these moments, whether the service is delightful or dystopian,   
I always feel obliged to   
represent the whole of the ingredient intolerant and food allergic circle.  
  
I can't be petulant   
or self-righteous when   
I am being judged on behalf   
of a wider community.  
  
I stand, stock-still, out of the way,   
an unobtrusive statue of shame.  
My cheeks grow red   
with the knowledge of being observed.  
  
I clasp my hands in front of me,   
trying to retain the aura of unbotheredness.   
  
*I am serene, I am enough,* 
*I am not* Too Much.   
*I am worthy,*   
I ruminate.  
  
My mind reels, inwardly,   
as I stew in the injustice   
of being treated poorly.  
  
All I needed   
was a washed metal utensil  
to help verify it was contamination-free, to thus enable a side-effects-free night.  
  
That, and a clean tub of ice cream untouched by errant scoops,  
that had previously scoured craters into otherwise safe flavors,  
thereby leaving skid marks of   
peanut butter fudge ripple and Oreo double blast batter blitz.  
  
(Incidentally what my toilet   
would look like   
should I be so casual   
as to waive "allergy protocol.")   
  
My eyes glaze over   
as I try  
to teleport   
out of the moment.   
  
I watch as the store associate   
hauls the fresh barrel of ice cream   
out of the back walk-in-freezer.  
  
My tub.   
The tub that holds the "little treat"   
of which I had previously   
thought myself worthy.  
  
He slams the three-gallon   
cardboard cylinder down  
on a back counter,   
his anger still evident, palpable.  
  
I sigh, in tiny little exhales, as to not   
draw further attention to myself.   
Puff, puff, puff, breathe.  
  
I stare out the front window, at my family,   
eating their melting ice creams   
under the late spring evening twilight,   
standing and shifting their stances   
to seek comfort on tired feet,   
waiting, waiting, waiting for me.   
  
When the pressure feels   
measurable in atmospheres, plural,   
I am finally called to the front of the store with a curt, "Here."   
  
The cup is dropped down with a thud,   
on the cashier counter,   
rather than being placed in my hand.   
On the surface where other contagions and allergens lurk.   
  
I brush off the bottom with a brown paper napkin, and rid the thought from my head.  
  
I swallow my pride,   
my dismay.  
"Thank you, I really appreciate the effort,"  
I say, meekly.  
  
"Whatever," the 'Dude' says,   
already turned away   
and onto the rest of his life.  
  
I take the tiny dish of ice cream outside.  
But my family is tired; restless.  
they want to return to the car,  
go home.  
  
I walk with my ice cream in tow,   
taking precision scoops   
with just the end of my spoon,   
barely enough, so that  
if some should slip off   
and fall to the sidewalk   
then I won't burst into tears over its loss.  
  
The ice cream is unctuous   
and not too sweet,   
it is delicious.   
It is also tinged with mockery.  
  
I taste the ridicule   
and frustration   
in the furrowed stripes caused by the rolling motion of the roving scoop.   
  
My container is empty by the time   
I reach for the car door handle.   
Our little springtime outing ends quietly,   
sullen, as we descend the garage stairwell.  
  
The air we attempt to breath   
feels deprived of oxygen.   
I am unclear if this is due to being  
in a subterranean parking structure,   
or from the lingering searing shame  
of my audacity to ask for safe dessert.   
  
I clear the cobwebs from my vocal cords;   
I find my voice. I open my mouth to share one line   
with my fellow family passengers:   
"Kindness is free;   
please use it with reckless abandon."