At Some Point I Turned into Cameron Diaz

(Day 7 of 30 in 30)

After lunch with my favoritest and most unattainable boo Saturday, I set off into the sunshine to run some errands. I had hair products to pick up. Maybe get my truck washed. Return a dress that turned out to be too big for me. And, most importantly, get some gelato I convinced myself I deserved despite having four martinis at lunch because, hey, it isn’t as fattening as the cupcake I actually wanted so it was a suitable substitute.

(As an aside- I have no idea if this is true. But that is what I told me. And I believed me. And I DARE YOU to try to convince me otherwise. Namaste.)

I drove all out of my way to go to my favorite gelato place. I walked in, greedily inhaling the sweet scent of forbidden foods, and stopped short to stare at a man already at the counter who looked like “What if David Beckham had another 15 pounds of muscle on him?” The answer; It is amazing.

I smiled, secretly hoping I didn’t have spinach from lunch in my teeth, and stepped to the counter to order from the sweet, young queen behind the counter who always has a compliment for my makeup or my shoes. I was trying really hard to focus on our conversation but I kept sneaking glances at David Beckham lite. I was plotting my approach when he made the first move.

“Hi, I’m Joe.”
“Hey Joe, I’m La.” He reached out to shake my hand. He had huge hands and a firm grip. I tried my hardest to climb out of the gutter where I briefly took up residence.

We made flirty small talk, as we made our way to the register where he paid for my gelato. We stepped to the side to exchange numbers, our convo an easy volley back and forth.

“Maybe,” he says tucking his phone back into his pocket after saving my number, “you can buy gelato next time after I buy dinner.”
“Maybe,” I reply coyly, throwing the words over my shoulder as we part, “but you’ll never know until you call.” I gave him my warmest, orthodontia assisted smile and turned around to walk away.

And walk right into the glass window next to the door I intended to push open.

Have you ever walked into plate glass? I have. Many times. It makes this solid, echoing thud that gets the attention of whoever is close by but might have missed you actually running into it. And to add insult to injury, I had dropped the cold gelato directly down my top.

I stood there, motionless and embarrassed, unwilling to turn around and see how many people are stifling giggles at me. Instead I faked left and spun around an older couple coming in the door, and hightailed it to my car.

I suppose that was the universe’s way of telling me I shoulda went to the fucking gym.