I’ll be surprised if anyone shows up today after the cliff-hanger I left you with yesterday.
Breaking news! My car broke down! And then it got fixed!
Halt the presses! I diced a butternut squash!
Jeez louise. I deserve to lose the first knuckle of my right index finger for that bullshit. Hopefully it won’t come to that but if it does, rest assured I will accept my punishment with minimal complaint. Reaching the ‘y’ key will become a more difficult task, but I’m not one to complain.
Moving along. Yeah, my car broke down 2 hours into my return trip from MI to NC, but really, other than waiting for the tow truck and the actually paying for the repairs, it was pretty painless. As my saintly mother paid for the repairs, I really have no room to complain. Speaking of no room, I did have to ride cross-legged in the back seat of my mom’s Ford Focus with 150+ pounds of pit bull, a cooler, and assorted snacks and Christmas presents, but hey – they are my (remarkably, blessedly well-behaved) dogs, and other than the time I had to reach over my crossed legs to grab a Coke for my sister from afore mentioned cooler (remember when you were in 10th grade and had to pass the Presidential Fitness test? and you had to sit on the floor with your legs stretched in front of you and see how far you could reach? It was kind of like that, but I’m 27, not 17) it wasn’t bad at all.
HOWEVER, I did see my old teacher at Food Lion while I was visiting my sister over Christmas break. You may remember this post where I professed my undying love for my high school History teacher, Mr. Tucker. Well, I’ve been waiting 10 years for him to realize we are meant to be together but now I know it shall never be. How do I know this? Because I am socially inept.
Let me back up, because this story is actually a good one.
All 3 of my sisters and my mom were at my sister Lauren’s house (she of riverboat gambling fame) to celebrate late Christmas together. My mom sent two of my sisters (Annie and Beth) and I to Food Lion to get a couple of bottles of wine.
Can I stop here to mention that we saw a boy peeing out of the open driver’s side door in the parking lot? I know, let she who is without sin cast the first stone, and I have peed in my fair share of inappropriate places, but this kid was something else. I have never before witnessed a daylight, outdoor pee of this magnitude. Honestly, at first I thought he was filling up water balloons with a hose – and this is not a comment on the size of his hose, which I (thankfully) did not see. He was peeing in such a way as to arc the stream almost to the height of his head. Before I realized it was pee I was afraid he would end up soaking his face. After I realized it was pee I was hoping he’d end up soaking his face. All I could do was shake my head and curse the small town. And of course, keep watching. I’m only human.
So it is in this state of mind that I entered the grimy, small town Food Lion. As all Food Lions have the same general floor plan, I aim myself toward the beer/wine aisle. Who do I see rounding the deli counter with a cute redhead on his arm?
Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh I think that’s Mr. Tucker. Yeah, it’s definitely him. Annie! Is that Mr. Tucker? It is. It is! Quick–hide. This I mutter as I fast-walk past Mr. Tucker and crouch behind a display of $2.99 bottles of North Carolina wines.
“Sarah, your face is really red.” Thanks, Annie. At least now I know my instinct to flee was a sound one. So there I am, hyperventilating among the light beers, while Beth is laughing loudly at my predicament. So help me God if he hears you and comes to investigate, I think. I peeked around the corner and watched him stroll down the next aisle.
My blood pressure continues to rise as I shadow him around the store, ostensibly looking for a wine tool but really just trying to stay out of his line of sight. I can’t bring myself to even get behind him in line because I can’t envision a conversation that goes beyond, “Hi, Mr. Tucker.” I probably wouldn’t even get that much out.
And really? I’m 27. I don’t address people who are, at most, 6 years older than me as “Mr.”
The truly sad part of this story is that EVERY SINGLE TIME I return to the town where I graduated high school I fantasize about running into Mr. Tucker, pumping gas or picking up some groceries. Of course, in these fantasies HE notices ME and strikes up a conversation, which inevitably leads to a romantic motorcycle ride along the coast and ends with…well, not with me crouched behind several cases of muscadine wine.