I'd like to tell you two stories that are very similar and yet worlds apart. One is a tale of triumph, the other a tale of painful self-awareness. While the series of events are comparable in chronology, they left me, and will likely leave the reader feeling very different.
Up first we have the story of a handsome young man and his steadily aging father. I was a junior in high school, it was a bright, sunny day just like any other Spring day in New England when it's not dumping the kind of rain that makes you consider building a boat, collecting animals and getting your crap together from a moral righteousness standpoint. My dad and I were in the grocery store, because you know, when you provide the food on the table and put a roof over someone's head you can drag them along on errands if you damn well please. We got every item on the Mama Bears' Old Testament length grocery list and both shut off our cell phones to provide us with an alibi for not responding to food item afterthought phone calls that would prolong our stay in this place.
We get to the cashier and my dad has me lift a case of water because of his back or whatever. Now, let me just pause here for a moment in order to explain something. In recent years, the furthest distance I have ran is the vast expanse between the King' couch and his porcelain throne. However, back in the day, I ran Cross Country and Track under the tutelage of a coach who stressed the importance of "lean muscle." Lean muscle is sought after in the same way a man is attractive who "does OK for himself." This is an oddly specific muscle mass that was typically enough to give me a sense of anabolic arrogance, but not enough to garner the gaze of a girl. This particular event with the checkout aisle chick took place halfway through my track season and my cardiovascular health, legs and arms were in mid-season form and I was feeling pretty good about myself and that attitude was reflected in my attire. I had chosen to wear a tank top on that day. If I decided to present myself in public in that manner now, the reaction would be the same as if I were wearing a fanny back. Mainly, "Wow, there's something you don't see every day." The girl in the checkout aisle was clearly doing her job as her eyes burned a lust-filled laceration through my luscious limbs as I lifted the water. My dad paid her and then we walked out to the parking lot and he said "You know she was checking you out, right?
Without looking at him, I nonchalantly said "Yeah." and we went home. All and all, I pretty much handled the entire situation like a total boss.
Fast forward to the present-day. I do love living on my own, but my financial situation and caffeine cravings have caused me to be a bit more frugal with my spending on food. I roll up to some cranky. old cashier with my creaking cart full of milk, bread, beer and microwave dinners and had this judgmental Judy look at the contents of the cart, then look at me with eyes that made audible her thoughts of "Oh honey, don't worry. She's out there somewhere."
Where has the time gone? Are my Golden Ages at the grocery store over? Sadly, that very well may be the case.
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