Let’s take a break from Chuck’s hiney, shall we? I know I could use a break.
Let’s talk instead about how when Mother Nature blesses New England with a nice day like yesterday you freak the hell out because you don’t know what to do to maximize every possible second of niceness.
From the moment you awake, you drive your immobile husband crazy with questions. Should you take Junior hiking? Biking? Walking? Window shopping? Strolling? Sprinkler jumping?
The real bitch is that every second spent deliberating about what to do with the one nice day is a second of time you could have been outdoors gone. So you start speeding up your questions to your immobile husband, who at that point knows exactly where he’d like to tell you to go, but he knows that you’ve been waiting on him for more than a week and that if he ever wants to eat or show someone his battle wounds again he better grin and bear it.
I decided on the beach.
As I was leaving, I turned wistfully to Chuck and said, “I need a friend in Mulletville. Like, now.”
Do you know what? As Junior and I slid down the cliff that is our front lawn, a woman who was walking down the sidewalk with her baby stopped and called hello. And she was cute! She was wearing straight-legged jeans with a patch on the butt; she had a ponytail with bangs. She kept smiling at me—Mrs. Yuppy Sweater (I’ve always secretly aspired to be a cool hippie chick, but a) I own too many blouses and b) I’m not mellow enough to pull off mellow clothes.)
We shot the shit for a few minutes. When we were done, she asked if I ever wanted to go walking on the weekends, and we exchanged numbers.
She picked me up, and it happened fast.
But, um, now I don’t know what to do. There’s the whole awkward burgeoning friendship stage to muck through—while we’re winded no less (she had skinny legs so I’m guessing she’s going to speedwalk). And I’m a nervous blurter. And she seems so much cooler than I am. Not that I’m a dweeb, but I don’t do well around calm people I don’t know. I tend to want to verbally jab. It’s how Chuck and I met. I assaulted him with my diction. I still do.
I know. I’m looking the gift hippie chick in the mouth (she has all her teeth, by the way). But I can’t help it. I’m used to being hit on by copier repairmen.
Have you ever been picked up by another woman on the street? If you have, did you become friends? Or were you the picker-upper? And why, if the universe was handing out plates of What You Asked For, didn't I say to Chuck, "I need a shopping spree. Like, now"?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.