I do manage to have fun while I’m there. For example, today, I was picking apples and while I was struggling to reach the shinny red ones at the top of the pyramid I decided to stand on the tip of my toes and stick out my butt. Of course, that didn’t make the job any easier, but I had a blast putting up a show for all the invisible people around me. I make the simplest day-to-day activities seem like fun, huh?
As I stand in line, I can’t help but look at what others are buying. It’s always interesting what you can learn about a person’s groceries, you can tell if they’re hosting a party, if they are a cat o a dog person, if they are cheap, if they have kids… You know, all that exciting stuff. But today, I looked at my shopping cart for a change, thinking what it said about me.
So, I stared at the Kotex pads, the three apples I carefully choose, 2 six-packs my mom asked me to buy, Nair wax, and a box of chocolate chip cookies that described me as an “alcoholic that wouldn’t want to walk around as if someone just shot at her vagina; likes to see herself as a healthy eater but she can’t fool herself for a long time… And who, under those jeans, doesn’t look so hot (but soon she will!)”; statement that, ignoring the alcoholic part, is completely true.
When I arrived at the register I was all excited to show off my ID. It’s not new or anything, but for so many years I promised myself that when I turned 18 (aka. Legal drinking *cough*sex*cough* age in Mexico) I would use any opportunity to show my ID followed by a “you think I’m underage? I’m so flattered”. Well, that day never came. I’m not much of a clubbing kind of girl (and in this day and age, in my town it’s a good thing); I thought I was an R-rated movie kind of girl, but these last two years I haven’t been, apparently, now that it’s legal for me to watch those moves, Pixar ones seem so much appealing (by the way, ToyStory3 fucking rocks… I laughed, cried, and got a bit horny by all grown up pixelated Andy); the only time I was asked for an ID was in a Sex Shop, and that time I forgot to bring it! But it was ok, my then boyfriend looked old enough for the both of us… Wait, did I just admit I went to a Sex Shop with a boyfriend? … I’m so so sorry, dad…
I lost my train of thought.
The point was that I was actually hopeful the woman at the cash register would ask for an ID but she didn’t. Could it be that I finally look my age…? Whatever, my mind is still thinking about hot Andy and all the new toys I could introduce him to (again, I’m so sorry, dad).
My exact change was the equivalent to 10 American cents; which led me to take the hard decision of not giving any tip to the bag boy. The old saying that goes “Little is better than nothing” is bullshit in this case. Those 10 cents were just an insult.
On the drive back I started thinking about all the things I rarely do… Cooking, cleaning the bathroom, ironing, grocery shopping. Activities that I try to have fun with, as I don’t do them very often. Activities that in a couple of months will be a big pain in the ass since I will be dealing with them on a daily basis. It won’t be long until I find myself yelling at pile of dirty laundry longing for the day those clothes cleaned themselves magically.
My only hope is that, when that day comes, I’ll find it in my heart to stick out my butt, giving my imaginary admirers a good show while I cry.
After a somehow deep and meaningful drive, I arrived home, just to find out the damn bag boy put all my stuff into the same heavy but frail bag. It ended up breaking, I kept the beers from falling out, but my pads didn’t run the same luck; and like an old cliché they landed in front of my neighbors’ house for a cute guy to see… Ok, it was actually and old woman, but it could have been a cute guy!
You may call it karma for not tipping the bag boy; I say you’re right… That fucker did deserve those insulting 10 cents.