He's here. The guy on the bike. I shouldn't have smiled. His name is Bob. Bob's favorite author is that Mario guy who wrote The Godfather. I inform him that I only read the classics. This is not true. I have a secret stash of Nora Roberts and I adore Pam Houston and Elizabeth Berg, but I don't want to encourage. I don't want to connect. Bob works nights. "I'm not a morning person," he states. I tell him that I get up at 4:30 AM. Tomaaato, Tomoto - get it Bob?
He asks me how old I am. (I ask you, is this a smart question?) Apparently he thinks I might be underage. Am I nineteen? he asks. "Um, no. I'm over 30." He's visibly shocked and proceeds to criticize my appearance. My hair doesn't have any grey, but, do I dye it? It looks natural. Probably not. (I just smile - without teeth - while he has this coversation with himself.) "You're hands don't look old. They're soft. Not wrinkled or spotted." Bob has confused "over 30" with 72. He is 27.
"Oh, look at the time. 1:05 - I was supposed to meet someone at 1:00. Nice to meet you Bob." he offers me his left hand to shake. "See you at Dunn Bros." What? He's nodding at the empty iced tea cup sitting next to me. Not only do I have avoid this spot on the lake, but not even my coffee shop is safe.
Boobs bounce pass us. Bob's attention is redirected. Hmmm. I love that. I feel safe again. There will always be bouncing boobs to protect me from the Bobs of the world.
2 comments:
That is it. I'm sending you a sport's bra/tank-top with full coverage. It wouldn't be the first bra I've bought you.
BTW so glad to picture you at the lake eating dried fruit, exercising, walking without your cane, you are doing so well for your age. What is your age again? I just know you are several years my elder.
Ah, yes! The extra strength tylenol is working wonders on the arthritis. And the lemon juice is fading away all those pesky sun spots. Now, I just have to get my teeth whitened and filed (getting a little long in the tooth....)
Post a Comment