Yesterday I took the kids to the grocery store to buy some food. Because I’m crazy like that. As we pushed our cart past the customer service desk, a woman reached out and put her hand on my arm. Her eyes were glued to my chest.
(As has been established in previous posts, there is hardly anything hypnotic about my chest. But I WAS wearing my boob-enhancing Fussy shirt.)
“Are you a writer?” she asked.
“Yes, I am,” I answered. For a split second it occurred to me that this would be one of those monumental moments of my life—I’d responded without a second thought, as I should—and I found myself thinking “must tell Karen about this.” Becoming creeps up on all of us, it seems.
It turned out she’s looking for a local writer; she took my card and we chatted a bit and then I went on my way. And because I’m me, I did my food shopping consumed by two thoughts:
1) I could just be some freak wearing a t-shirt (no need to point out that I AM a freak, thanks). This woman was either very brave or a little nuts.
2) Maybe I need to cultivate an entire Fussy-a-Day wardrobe, just to make sure I never miss a gig. You never know who’s gonna want to hire me at my next mammogram.