All right. It's official. I'm getting too old and delusional to think that my contortion below even sliiiiightly resembles the number eight. Check it:
Color me embarrassed. And inflexible. And anything that doesn't resemble 8.
boots & watch: target. socks: smith's marketplace. jeans: kohl's. sweater: j. crew. blazer: thrifted (the limited). belt: pocket's. flower: gifted/homemade.
Yesterday I went grocery shopping. First time in a long time. As in, our fridge was down to about a tablespoon of ketchup and some moldy cheese, which was actually going to be last night's dessert, but after having feasted on the last of the mustard and some bendable celery, we simply couldn't eat another bite. My lucky lucky family.
So. Me. In checkout line. Buying groceries. [Editor's note: Not that much, all things considered. Some produce, some meat, some breaded items. Some milk. Some chex mix. Not even pnut m&ms!]
When allsofasudden the man behind me says, all flirty-like [Editor's note: I think it goes without saying, but just in case: EW. and ???] “Heyyy, do you live out in the woods or something?” Inferring that I had a lot of groceries…enough, maybe, to survive the rest of the winter deep in a wooded area. I kind of smiled awkwardly and shook my head and started to "look" for something deep in my purse, a.k.a. "get off me." He registered a bit high on the oily-creep scale. Like a 9.8. Falling below a perfect-10 only because he didn't sport a large gold chain around a bare, hairy white chest. But he was just that close.
Then he started bragging to the nice grocery clerk about a song he wrote recently. He’s a songwriter. He writes songs. SONG. WRITER. My my my, aren’t we just the epitome of urban cool. And oh-so-studly that you buy your lunch of Red Bull and gum on the daily.
Heaven forbid you buy carrots, let alone 5 pounds of them at once. Sure, those ribs in my cart are “country style,” but that doesn’t mean I milk a cow every morning. Or maybe I do (I don’t), right next to the moon-carved outhouse door and buckets o' pig slop and mucking boots. I’ll never ever tell. (But I don’t.) I just happen to not love grocery shopping, so I try to get it over with. Geesh.
Anyway. I escaped the uncomfortable situation unscathed, pulling my now seemingly 8-cart train of groceries toward my waiting backhoe in the parking lot. For all he knows, next time I make it into Town might be 6 months from now, after the Spring Thaw and Calving Time.
[Editor's note: I'd go on, but I can't think of any more rustic analogies or phrases. Nuts. My cover is blown.]
Happy Tuesday.
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