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I just got checked
out, and I wasn’t even at the grocery store.
It should have been
a banner moment for all thirty-eight years of me. After all, the only thing
fuller than my grocery bags these days is the luggage I’m carting under my
withered eyes. Sigh. I’m resigned to
having passed that baton to my tweenage daughter. In fact, I thumped her on the
head with it on the transfer.
Perhaps this is why
I took the following incident as well as I did. There I was, stopped at a red
light, passing the time by looking at the cars around me. After a quick glance
to my right, I did a double take as I noticed a guy actually check me out. But
before I could even consider sitting taller in my minivan captain’s chair, he
followed up with a dramatic post-stroke face and shoulder shrug that said
“Eeh.”
Good God. Had it
really come to that? This, after all, is the same reaction I had to my first
bite of eggplant. One squinted eye, a half smirk, as if to say “So, what’s all
the hype about? It’s not repulsive enough for a spit-take, but I’m not about to
devour it, either.”
With that, any
fantasies I’d held onto about being considered an “American Pie” M.I.L.F. were
obliterated. Unless, of course, this young man defined the acronym as a “Mother
I’d Like to Find at least one car length away.”
It could have been worse, though. No? He didn’t retch, or even bark, or
moo.
When you take into
consideration that this moment coincided with my very first non-beach, public
debut of my arms, which I not so affectionately refer to as “tharms” (thigh
arms), I nearly honked my horn and waved in appreciation. But that would have
sent the arms a flapping… the very thing that had me doubt my skimpy clothing
selection on this hot summer day.
The outfit choice
was a bold move for someone who had no business tempting karma. I’d already
fulfilled half my destiny by becoming a high school Spanish teacher. And now
that the tharms and the man were involved, the universe was ripe for a payback.
You see, the debt
was incurred twenty-six years ago when I had my first Spanish class with Señora
Améndola. While the kind woman surely taught me irregular verb forms in a way
that made me love the language enough to want to teach it when I grew up, I
have only one real memory of her class: Each and every time that poor woman
wrote on the chalkboard, any and all learning stopped as I giggled and
snickered about how her arms wagged like my dog’s tail on steak night.
I had built-in
insurance that my students would never have the same memories of me. Long
sleeves pretty much guaranteed it. I must admit, however, that this approach
once led a student to proclaim to the class that he pictured me sweating on my
upcoming wedding day. He was right, of course, and was part of the reason I
dared to brave ¾ sleeves, and squelched all fantasies of transferring to a
Catholic school and dressing as a nun. Sweat and public ridicule can do that to
a girl.
Summer vacation
recently arrived and inspired me to get braver still. I decided to tackle an
afternoon of yard work while wearing a bright orange fitted tank top. In the
privacy of my own yard, my superficial thoughts became secondary to my
deep-tissue issues as I stooped, yanked and hauled the afternoon away. That is
until my hungry family declared a craving for Chinese takeout. I was exhausted
enough to rationalize the indecent exposure of my tharms, and hop in the car. After
all, odds were good that I wouldn’t need to wave excitedly or give any
high-fives while picking up our order.
Once the exchange
was completed, I left the restaurant with nary a condemning glance and
re-entered the safety of my minivan. Not
so bad at all. I might just dare to bare again someday. Then, not one mile
down the road, along came the reluctant “Eeh” of approval to remind me of my
needs for growth in some areas, and a lot more restraint in others. I love it
when the gods go easy on me.
Now pass me the egg rolls…
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