If you asked people to describe the real life me, they are likely to come up with many different characterizations: uptight, strange, hermit, furtive, midget-like, etc. And if they were forced to try to figure out what I do with my time, they would hasten to point out that grocery shopping is unlikely to be on the list.
Food and I have a love hate relationship (unless it involves ice cream or chocolate or really anything that can make my ass expand), so it’s not really a surprise that I have only a passing regard for the place that food calls home. Needless to say, when people advise me that the grocery store is a great place to meet men, I cringe. Spending more time there is not a goal.
Well, I have to say, the people on “Team Kate” may have been correct. I did meet a boy at the grocery store today. He even made the first move. I was staring at the meat section (always a turn on for men), and I believe I was looking quite fetching. Perhaps it’s the way my t-shirt was wrinkled just so. Perhaps it was the way the alluring shade of gray of my sweatpants set off my ankles. One can never really know what sparks attraction. Whatever it was, he decided to stop and chat.
Yeah. The damaged ones find me.
I couldn’t swear to him being inebriated—it’s entirely possible that the alcohol was simply seeping from his pores from the prior evening’s activities. It was only 8:30am. I’m not entirely sure that I believe that he was the one who told a certain rehabbed actor where to get the crack that sent him to prison, but it was an interesting and well-told story. I’m also not sure how I was supposed to react to him telling me that he met said actor in prison. Because I’m guessing prison doesn’t give a lot of tours for fun, so that would mean… Boys, just a tip, “yeah, I was in prison with him” is not the celebrity pick-up line you want to use in all situations. Or maybe it’s just me.
Honestly, I kid about this, but this man was in a lot of pain. He’d been in an accident, and was still recovering. I’m not sure how the alcohol or the prison fit into the situation, but I’m pretty certain telling me that he had to leave the movie he’d just seen for a bit to grab a beer may have been a sign that all is not well.
Meanwhile, the security guard is trying to figure out if I’m ok because this conversation had gone on for quite a while, and wasn’t really quiet—but I couldn’t figure out if I was ok, either. Part of me was thinking, “all I’m trying to do is pick up some chicken and get the hell out of here—why does this always happen to me?” While the other part of me felt terrible for this person who clearly needed help and was thinking “this poor man, I hope he—hang on, is he staring at my breasts? He is! He’s staring at my breasts.”
The entire thing left me feeling sad. I hope he gets things worked out and that he recovers well from his injuries. Oh, and I also hope that I have my lethal spork in hand should be meet again, just in case.
“Team Kate” is so fired.
Kate, confused with these alien feelings of sympathy mixing with my comfortable feelings of annoyance