The Compliment

The morning arrived in a blur of activity, and kept the pace going as I stumbled through errands. Agenda one: Walk Booker.

Since our husky, Booker, is in full shedding mode (“shed happens”), I select my clothes with the understanding I’ll be coated in, well, his coat. I can stay twenty feet away from him and still look like a human dandelion gone to seed. Of course I love petting him, so the human skin/dog hair ratio easily triples. It’s windy today, and my hair–which started in a pony tail– succumbs like a weather vane in a tornado.

Agenda two: Work out.

My dog-hair covered ensemble is good enough for the weight machines. I do my thing, which includes a stationary device that makes me use my upper body weight to work my butt. It’s sorta like bowing. A lot. The thing is I’m never sure if, as I’m doing all the “bowing,” that other fitness folks aren’t looking down my shirt. I try to cross my hands over my chest as do my thirty-count, but know it appears–I appear– dorky. By the way, all the ups and downs of the motion further messes my hair. Bobby pins fall like metal rain, and my pony tail? It’s now somewhere on the side of my head. I look like Picasso drew me when he was in a bad mood.

Agenda three: Mail book at post office.

As I drive over to the post office I remember the shorts I’m wearing have a sizeable hole in the butt. I was supposed to have mended the rip when the shorts came out of the wash last time, but forgot. At this point I recall I’m wearing a thong, so much of my butt cheek is visible should someone decide to look. To think I was worried about my cleavage falling out a few minutes ago. Now the phrase “the end is in sight,” takes on new meaning.

I sidle into the post office in a weird motion meant to limit potential butt gazing. The irritating thing about trying not to be noticed is that you act so strangely people notice. I stood with my back against the wall as a young man shoved roughly a dozen boxes towards the postal guy. I shifted back and forth as the items were weighed and priced for shipping. The fee came to over $100.

“Hey,” said the postal guy, “Thanks to you I’ve already made my quota for the day!”
The young patron said something to the effect he was glad he could help, paid his tab, and left. I walked to the counter keeping my right butt cheek protected. Trendy people walks side-ways these days, don’t they?

I slide the book across the counter and say, “I’m afraid my mailing won’t be nearly as interesting as the young man who just left.”

The postal guy, who usually either ignores me or is snarky, says, “Maybe not, but you’re better looking.”

“Awe,” I said, and paid for my postage.

I still walked out protecting the hole in my shorts—I cleverly and casually put my purse back there—but felt a lot better about my morning.

To recap, I had hair like Medusa; my clothes were dog hair covered, and had a huge hole in my shorts. And he still said I was good looking. Having a liar as my postal guy? The best part of my day.