So... this is happening.

Three bits of backstory I think might be helpful to know before we get into this.

     1. While my character quirks are many, I am not a particularly flaky person. I’m not overly forgetful, I’m relatively well organized, and on most days, I can at least fake it pretty well that I’ve got my shit together.

     2. I do not enjoy my own nakedness. I just don’t spend an excessive amount of time naked. Ask any of my exes.

     3. I have kittens. Kittens who like to play and bat at anything, especially string. Like the strings that hang down when the blinds are closed. So, they stay open. You can already see where this is going, can’t you smart reader.

Okay. I think we’re ready.

Yesterday at lunch, I reached for my darling little Rebecca Minkoff change purse that doubles as my wallet so I don’t have to haul my giant ass suitcase of a handbag around everywhere. It wasn’t there. Huh. I didn’t really panic – I’d gone to the grocery store late the night before, so I knew it couldn’t be too far – and I just banked on the fact that I’d tossed it on the kitchen counter and forgotten to put it back in my purse.

So when I got home from the gym last night, I dropped my gym bag on the floor, jumped in the shower, put on my awesomely unsexy single-girl PJs, and went about the business of looking for my wallet. Not on the kitchen counter. Hmm. Not on my dresser, or in the little spot where I toss my keys and work badge every night. (See point 1.) Not in the refrigerator, or the bathroom, or the bin in the spare bedroom where I’d put away the toilet paper. Not on the arm of the couch, or in between the couch cushions, or under the couch where all non-cat-toys-that-the-cats-play-with go to die. Not in the apartment, apparently.

Panic was coming. I hate panic. But, because I’m not used to losing things, I lose my shit when I lose shit. I started pacing and making weird little whiny whimpering noises. Maybe the front seat of the car? Ah yes. Of course. Must’ve tossed it onto the passenger seat after loading groceries.

So I took my awesomely unsexy PJ’ed self outside and was bent over the car seat feeling a lot of crumbs but no wallet when I noticed I had an audience. An adorably pudgy neighbor guy was walking his dog, and clearly afraid I was ransacking a car. I’d gotten a little frantic, made worse by the enormous plastic bag taking up space and visibility in the backseat. (My wedding dress. Another time.) My boxer shorts had ridden up and my tank top was askew. He’d given up all pretense of tending to the Shepherd muzzled at his side and was just staring. Even the Shepherd was staring. I slammed the door shut and started to scurry back inside, when I thought, I should go look where I was parked last night. Maybe it was in my lap and fell out. So I wandered over, shoeless and braless, and turned in circles around an empty parking spot. Now he just looked fascinated, and I became acutely aware that I looked not unlike a homeless crackhead.

“Excuse me.” Nice boy. Wants to help me look for whatever I’ve misplaced. Or perhaps to offer me a stint in rehab.

“Um, this might sound weird, but I, gosh, I just wanted to tell you that, well, when I was walking my dog earlier, I saw you changing.” Sweet, embarrassed chubby boy who probably doesn’t talk to a lot of girls.

I instantly burst into tears. Obviously. I live on the second floor, and my bedroom window faces the back of the property, so I just don’t give a lot (enough) thought to the fact that I’m not alone in the world. But really, someone would really have to have wandered off the beaten path to see my window. Unless it was dark out and the light was on, I guess. Shit.

“Oh god. I’m mortified. Thank you so much for telling me. Seriously, I am so embarrassed.” Crying, crackwhore version of me.

“Oh, don’t be. I didn’t tell you so you’d be embarrassed. I wanted to tell you... you are very attractive.” Fat, sweaty boy who clearly doesn’t talk to a lot of girls.

Whaaaaa?

Blink, blink, sniffle. “Thank you?” I’m happy to know about myself that even when stunned into tearful confusion, my impeccable manners don’t fail me. Thank you, mom and dad, for teaching me to be polite. Indiscrete, maybe, but polite.

“So, like, do you have a boyfriend?” Obese, crazy-eyed boy who has never had a girlfriend ever.

Wait, WHAT? What the fuck did you just say? Did you seriously just tell a crying girl that you’d looked into her second floor window, watched her get buckass naked, and then try to hit on her?

“I mean you probably do because I feel like most girls who look like you always seem like they have boyfriends.” Creepy, creepy, creepy boy who apparently thinks that what is upsetting to me about this entire situation is the implication that I might not have a boyfriend.

Manners gone.

“Uh, yes. A big one. Two actually. And a husband see there’s a wedding dress in my car to prove it. And a dad and a couple of grown sons. Even my cats are boys.”

Seriously, you fat fuck with your dumb dog, who opens up a conversation that way? Was the thought process that you’ve already seen my goodies, so why not let you touch them? That you did me a favor by telling me I was exposed to all of The Farms’ late-night dogwalkers, so I should do you a favor in return? I mean, on one hand, way to play the statistics, dude. You throw enough out there and the odds just tell you that eventually, something’s got to stick. I, however, do not wish to stick to you.

I ran inside, turned off all the lights, put on two bras and a sweater, and slept under the bed.


How does this stuff happen to me?


Epilogue: my wallet was at Kroger.