You know those situations where, when they happen you’re too discombobulated to say anything coherent. . .then, a few minutes or maybe an hour later, you slap your own forehead and say, “Damn, why didn’t I say that?”
In the last two months or so, I’ve been in situations where I probably should have first slapped the forehead of the person involved. Looking back, though, that probably wouldn’t have been a wise course of action. But both instances did make me wonder what the hell some men are thinking. . .
The first incident happened when I was on a mission in Walmart. “Mission” defined as a trip not involving aimlessly wandering around the store, lollygagging in the pen and notebook aisle (I know…such a nerd), or allowing people with fewer items to step in front of me in line. Mission means I’m in, I grab what I need, I’m out.
I was on my way to work at the clinic, so I was wearing leggings, a scrub top and my rather beat-up Asics. Generally, what I wear to Walmart is not mention-worthy; however, it does factor into the story. I finally reach my car, which is in an area of the parking lot so far away from the store entrance it probably has a different zip code. Just as I’m placing the last bag in the truck, I spot a car behind mine, seeming as if the driver intends to turn to go down the next lane.
I hear, “Excuse me, miss. Can I ask you a question?”
Being ever-polite and hyper-helpful, I answer, “Sure.”
That’s when I note the man driving the car, which itself was likely in great condition about ten years ago, is about five times my size, wearing his hat backwards, and sporting an abundance of gold on his person…including his teeth.
He says, “If I give you my phone number, would you call me? I was following you around the store, but I didn’t want to bother you cuz you looked like you was in a hurry. So, when you left, I just followed you to your car…”
I’m stunned. Like whacked with a baseball bat kind of stunned.
What I said then, “Um…absolutely not.” (and dashed into my car)
What I wish I would have said: “Oh, but yes, I’ll not only call you, I’ll carve your phone number into my hand. Because I’ve been dreaming of the day when a man would be made so breathless seeing me wearing doggie-decorated scrubs and leggings with pulls from cat claws and scruffy shoes that he would stalk me in, not only the store I’m shopping in, but the parking lot. A man sporting ten pounds of gold, who’s not working in the middle of the day and is driving a vehicle in need of first aid is surely a catch. Wait right there while I call my husband, five children and grandkids to tell them not to expect me at Thanksgiving.”
Then, yesterday, I’m schlepping three twelve-packs of Coke Zero into my trunk, when I hear someone talking behind me. I turn around to find two men in a truck have stopped behind my car, and the one in the passenger seat–wearing a goofy grin–says, “You can put Cokes in my trunk anytime.”
What I said then: “Sure, that’s going to happen.”
What I wish I would have said: “You’re an idiot. Is that the best pick-up line you can manage? Of course, it’s the end of the work day, and we’re in a Walgreens parking lot, so it’s probably not the prime time and place for you to be seductive. But the only way I’d ever be putting Cokes in your trunk is if you were an elephant.”
Parking lots. Putting bags in my trunk. Dressing frumpy. These three things together seem to be problematic for me.