May 13, 2008

Paying Penance

I am going to hell, directly to hell; do not pass go, hell. H.E. double hockey sticks, Dante’s Inferno, Lucifer’s living room, HELL! Unless I go to confession and get a pass. Oh, settle down, I was just kidding. Anywho, where was I? Oh yes, HELL! Ok, so I ‘m going to tell you what I did, but I have to type quietly as I don’t want Wayne to see this. If he pulled this crap I would flip a biscuit. I’d be so PO’d there would be weeks of endless questioning of his love and devotion for me, his feigned tolerance of my charming little quirks, or if he wished I were younger, smarter, smaller, taller, prettier or had real red hair.

Yesterday I was checking out at the grocery store. An ordinary day, other than the fact that I had actually managed to make it to the grocery store, but other wise an ordinary day with the ordinary sundries: Napkins; paper and sanitary, tissues; facial and toilet, soap; bar and pump, along with low fat everything, sugar free anything, skim milk , et al. As luck would have it, on this particular day I was not buying anything that makes you go, anything that helps you stop, or any liniments, ointments or lubricants.

Innocently unawares of my cougaresk charms, I inadvertently unloaded my cart in a seductive, some might even say, Mrs. Robinson manner. I conversed with the check out lady employing pleasant, sophisticated and witty prose. In a moment of optical fortitude I entered my pin and completed my purchase sans store bought reading glasses, as my super sleek, Dr. prescribed, sexy librarian reading glasses are still on order.

That’s when it happened. The automatic doors opened and a gust of ocean breeze swept in tussling most of my hair and all of his. The sun’s rays gleam on his golden bronze skin, while the fluorescent lights accentuated his aqua blue eyes. There he was, the bag boy, gently handling my eggs. Paper, plastic or me? “May I help you out with your groceries My Lady?” he mouthed in a husky tone that was beyond his 17 and ¾ years. (He may have said Ma’am, but really it’s practically the same thing, at least it had the same effect). See paragraph one…GOING TO HELL.

Not only did I giggle, I squealed a little, blushed and felt a twinge of nausea. I’ll have to buy something for that. In the nano second it took for the transgression to transpire I felt everything from giddy to remorse and shame. 17 ¾ is in no way equal to 50, handsome, smart, loving and my husband, no matter how tan you are. Can you imagine a mature, voluptuous, worldly woman, like I would like to be one day, effervescing like a sophomore cheerleader because one James Dean Jr. bag boy winked at her while bagging her melons? I should think not!!!

Quite shaken, I declined the offer and ran to my car. Well, it was more like a half hearted power walk, after all I was pushing a cart. I threw my bounty in the car and instantly called my girlfriend back home for advice. She has been married 15 years; she’ll know what to do. I told her of the offence to all that is good and moral. I relayed my shame to my comrade in age. I am not used to thinking other males are attractive; I am happily married to a handsome man who I love more than anything.

“Calm down” the old girl told me, “you’re married not dead.”

Well this seamed a rather mannish answer to me. Isn’t that the sort of rationale some chauvinist pig might use while shoving singles in a g-sting or ordering seconds at Hooters? My partner in would be cougerdom then proceeded to tell me of her lustful ogling of a certain Cleveland Indian’s baseball player.

“It’s not that I don’t love my husband or find him attractive,” she claimed, “it just an appreciation for beauty, I would never do anything about it”

Sounds like a slippery slope to me, I thought.

“He’s 24, athletic and fun to watch,” the old girl continued.

“But, there is one important difference,” I replied. “Your thinking a 24 year old is cute makes you a dirty old woman, my thinking a 17 ¾ year old is cute makes me a criminal!” Definitely going to hell!

So, I have instituted a self imposed sojourn in Purgatory. Until my soul is cleansed, I have banned myself from all grocery stores save Wal-Mart. I am absolutely certain there is no chance in hell of me seeing anyone even remotely attractive in a Wal-Mart.





1 comment:

Steph said...

Oh dear, if you are going to hell then I am most certainly a seasoned resident of the innermost rings, taking up space with politicians and mass torts attorneys because if ogling a 17 and 3/4 year old slab of fine American male is that grievous a sin then I'm guilty several times over!

P.S. - But isn't Jerry Falwell supposed to be in heaven? And Pat Robertson has reservations there, no? So do you really want to be there anyway? I mean, with those guys?