Yesterday I got hit on at the grocery store, by a stock boy probably young enough to be my son. I mean, I would have had to have been preggo with him in high school, but still, technically, I suspect it would be possible. I should be less pleased than I am, but damn, it’s such a nice ego boost. This week, I began writing a blog entry titled, “The long, slow fade of giving a shit.” It’s about how I feel invisible as a woman, and how that feeling has entered into some kind of feedback loop with my inherent sloth and laziness, causing me to wear less and less makeup, blow dry my hair less and less frequently, and wear comfier and comfier shoes. That invisible feeling, that “Why should I put on earrings? No one is looking at me” feeling, it has really been dragging me down lately. (And now I don’t have to finish that entry, because I just summarized it for you. Score one for the lazy sloth!)
But nothing can perk up a lazy, invisible sloth like getting hit on at the grocery store.
I’m walking down the soup aisle. Stock boy is putting soup on shelves. I grab some chicken broth in a can. I probably won’t even need to use it, because I have a chicken carcass in the freezer and would much rather make the stock from scratch, but if I don’t have time (see above re: lazy sloth), it’s nice to have the cans in the pantry. Stock boy glances up and says “Hello.”
I smile, actually look at him, and say, “Hi.” I look at him because I try really, really hard not to treat people like they are invisible. This behavior was apparently sufficiently odd as to earn me a once over and a smile big enough that maybe it could be counted as an invitation.
Thanks, stock boy, but I am someone’s wife, and someone’s mother, and I could be your mother. So no thanks. Smile back and move on.
In the next aisle, I look at my list… and realize that I have forgotten something in the soup aisle. Crap. Crap crap crap. Lipton beefy onion soup mix. I have to go back. I’m almost out of that magical secret ingredient. I can’t go back. He’ll think I’m hitting on him. Come on, Pam. You’re a middle-aged woman wearing no makeup with air-dried hair, and wearing extremely comfortable shoes. Just go get the damn soup mix. He probably won’t even notice.
He notices. He raises his eyebrows and gets this sort of self-satisfied look. It’s nice to know that I probably gave him a little accidental ego boost too.
“So, what are you making us for dinner?”
As pick-up lines go, it could use some work. Kid, I am old enough to be your mommy, and if I WERE cruising the grocery store in search of a tender young thing for my bed, I would not want to be reminded that you are so young that your mommy probably still cooks for you. And possibly still cuts up your steak.
I didn’t say that. I sputtered out something about grocery store sushi (the traditional post-grocery-shopping dinner in our house), trying to make it clear that I was not inviting him to join me.
“I love sushi. Or, you could come over to the fire station and I could cook for you.”
Damn, stock boy actually has some game. I don’t have the fireman thing. Some firemen are cute. Some are not. The mere presence of a fire hat does not cause me to drop my panties. But for some women, the fireman thing combined with the offer to cook? Not bad, stock boy, not bad.
I don’t say that either. I laugh it off and go back to looking for beefy onion soup mix. They don’t carry it. Damn.
And I’m off to the baking and spices aisle. Did you know that saffron costs $20 for a tiny little envelope? This soup had better be delicious. I’m definitely going to have to make the stock from scratch now. But I didn’t go back to put back the canned broth.
I should really close this little story with some uplifting comment about how beauty comes from the inside and how we don’t need anyone else’s validation to feel sexy. Self-love, confidence, blah blah blah. Yeah, that crap is awesome, and nothing replenishes it like getting hit on by a 20-year-old.
[Edited to add that the beefy onion soup mix is NOT going into the same soup as the chicken stock and saffron. Because those three together? Ew. I use the beefy onion soup in beef stew, meatloaf, etc. The saffron is for a pumpkin-shrimp bisque.]
Awesome. I would have been tempted to go to the firehouse just so someone would cook me dinner for a change. :)ReplyDelete
Food is all-around sexy. And I'm not talking about anything off-beat, not that there's anything wrong with it. I mean that enjoying a meal is very sensual.ReplyDelete
You can learn a lot from the way a person eats good food. I watch couples in restaurants. Don't you? You can read the relationships by how they dine. Does the guy know how to savor his meal? Or does he wolf it down, then look to be a million miles away? (I'm sure I don't have to paint a picture for you to extend this to my meaning.)
Of course these things extend to meal forepl- I mean prep. And I have recently observed how much Sonya enjoys it when I join her at the grocery store. It is relationship building.
Now that I am aware of the dangers of her doing the grocery shopping alone, perhaps I will join her more often.
I miss grocery shopping with my honey, but have traded it in for the sensory pleasure of grocery shopping without my kids.ReplyDelete
It is especially flattering when it's a young man hitting on you! What a great way to end the week!! I'm shocked when it happens too - I figure I have "Mommy" written all over me, so who would even look. Did you tell your hubby so HE would cook you dinner?ReplyDelete
I did tell him, but he didn't make dinner. He does plenty though. When he comes home to kids being schmucky and a wife at the end of her rope, he does cook on those days, or at least feeds the kids while I hide and recover. That's better than a fireman hat any day.ReplyDelete
Oh, and also, he was watching the kids so I could grocery shop in peace. I would rather he do that than cook me dinner any day.ReplyDelete