Friday, October 23, 2009

The price of procrastination

It had been one of those mornings. I was up late the night before writing three essays for my english midterm and  had woken up when it was still dark out to study some more. At 7:45 I made my way downstairs to find my kids on the computer. Jake's hair was sticking up in every direction and Andrew was wearing a spaghetti sauce stained shirt from the day before. I issued commands for them to pour themselves some cereal, brush their teeth, and hair, and for the love of good put clean shirts on.

We barely made it to their school on time. While Andrew was exiting the car he panickly announced, "I left my book bag at home!"

"You have got to be kidding me! I can't go back to get it. I have a midterm this morning!" I tell him

"What about my lunch!" he whines.

"Fine, I'll pick something up for you!"

So that's why I end up at a shell station at 8:45 am on Thursday with my hair still wet from my morning shower and a coffee stain on the knee of my jeans. I park at a pump and decide to fill up my half empty tank.

I make my way toward the convenience store but not before almost being mowed down by a man in one of those ridiculous monster trucks.  It's the kind with mud flaps and it is plastered with No Fear stickers. I turn around and give him the mental finger with my eyes. Normally, I would have no problem flicking him off but I am at a gas station buying lunch for my ten-year-old son. I think I have filled my trashy quota for the day.

Inside I pour myself more coffee and add artificial pumpkin spice creamer. I scan the shelves for something that will not cause Andrew a heart attack upon ingestion. I find a can of microwavable chicken noodle soup, a banana, and string cheese.

When I get outside monster truck man is pumping gas across from my car. He is staring at me through blood shot eyes. I give him a look that is supposed to express the fact that I think he is an ass. He nods. I nod.

Before I know it he is standing next to me. He is reaching into his wallet and he is handing me a small white card. I take it, look it over,  and wonder what he is trying to sell me, motor oil, life insurance, some sort of pyramid scheme?  I am annoyed and at the same time confused.


" I think you're real pretty. I 'm Jeff." he tells me taking his hand out of his cargo shorts so I can shake it.

I'm so perplexed as to what is going on that it takes me a few minutes to realize that he is hitting on me.

My face turns red. I stare at a small section on the top of his forehead so as to avoid his eyes and tell him,

"Thanks but i'm married."

I politely hand him back the card, he refuses, winks and says, "keep it."

This sort of thing happens to my husband not me.  Aaron is an old lady magnet. He always has been. If he hadn't have married me I am certain he would be living in La Jolla. His wife would be a rich lady with blue hair. He would drive a porsche around, own numerous poddles, and they would be members of the Shakespeare Society adn attend gallas.

At my brothers wedding my aunt took a picture of Aaron's ass in his tuxedo pants. "he's got a great butt." she told me later. When we went to Ireland to visit my family, my middle aged cousins told him he looked like a soap star and hugged him a little too long .

Once at Ruby Tuesdays a woman tried to pick up on him while he waited for our daughter outside the ladies room "I'm not normally this forward." she purred, " but  you're an extremely attractive man."  She too had graying hair. 

Aaron loves it.  Even more he loves to brag about it. He'll come home from work and tell me about the waitress who told him he had pretty eyes.

"Did she have real teeth or dentures?' I'll ask.

The truth is, I can't wait to tell Aaron about my gas station encounter. I fish my wallet out of my purse and stick the card in it to take out later when Aaron gets home from work. I consider leaving out the part about the man's strange body odor. After all, is that part really necessary?

I reach over to fasten my seat belt and notice something shimmering near my chest. I look down and realize that the two top buttons of my shirt are undone.  My over priced Victoria Secret push up bra is out there for the world to see.

It's a ridiculous bra, one I rarely wear. It was purchased last year right after Christmas. My Mother-in-law had given me a victoria secret gift card, of all things. At first I thought it was creepy. Later she explained that she knew I couldn't spend it on anyone other than myself.  Unlike a gift card for Target or macys At V.S. I would be ubale to buy items for other memebrs of my family.  I bought the bra because i figured I might as well go all out.

Because this particular bra  pushes my boobs up to my throat, it is always in the back of my closet. That morning I had fished it out because all of my other bras were in the laundry basket heaped in the corner of my bedroom.

Looking down at my exposed cleavage I realize that there is no way in hell that I would have gotten truck mans business card without the boobs.   I am certain that he thnks I am a lonely housewife who wears satin robes when the plumber or deliver guy stops by. 

 I button it up and quickly speed past the monster truck driver. This time I have no problem flicking him the bird. I try not to think about weather or not my shirt was open while dropping off my kids at school a few minutes earlier.

That's what I get for procrastinating!

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