As a kid, Dad and I would park ourselves on a mall bench and watch the crowds pass by. Exciting stuff, I know, but boy did we have enough fodder on which I could exercise my bourgeoning talent for sarcasm.
The other night, I managed to escape to the local bookstore all by my lonesome (have I mentioned what a great husband I have?) to score some new reading material. Ah, peace and quiet and no Co-Defendants. The checkout was manned (and I use ‘man’ loosely, but ‘boyed’ just doesn’t have the same oomph, does it?) by a baby-faced whippersnapper who enthusiastically inquired if I had a store discount card.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘but let me give you my phone number’.
You should’ve seen the look of abject horror on his face. A few uncomfortable seconds passed before it dawned on me that the twerp thought I was hitting on him. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! There I stood, a 38-year old suburban mom, wearing my ‘awesome wife’ t-shirt and sporting more leg stubble than he had facial hair. Pardon me for saying so, sweet cheeks, but do you honestly think I’d schlep my way into felony territory for a go-round with the likes of you?! Oh. Em. Gee.
Mind you, I’m not opposed to the whole idea of being a cougar, but I am married and I’m in no hurry for DH to check out on me yet.