My day started off extra bizarre when my son Logan said, “Mommy, you’re sexy.”
On one hand, sure, it was nice to hear, but so overwhelmingly weird/strange/inappropriate/awkward coming from my six-year-old son. “What did you say?!” I said, and he said again, “I think you’re really sexy Mommy.” The look on my face must have made him feel horrible because tears started welling up in his eyes. I said, “Where did you learn that word?” He said, “it was in a song.” I said, “What do you think it means?” to which he replied, “it just means pretty, I just meant that you were really pretty Mommy, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a bad word.” And the huge crocodile tear spilled from his eye.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? I just gave him a big hug and thanked him, but explained that “sexy” was a grown-up word and that he should just stick with “pretty” for the next 15 years.
So I got them off to school and had to immediately drive approximately 120 mph the grocery store, blurry eyed and cranky because I awoke to discover I had no more coffee beans, AND was dangerously low on smokes. This is no good for a woman in recovery (one addiction at a time haters.)
People probably thought I was on The Amazing Race or something the way I was tearing through the store, wild-eyed, desperate to reach the coffee aisle (in my work-out clothes but I have no intention of working out.)
And then, like a glowing beacon of joy on the horizon, like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Aisle 3! I picked up pace, had my eye on the prize and like a meth head diving at a baggie of fresh crystal, I grabbed and embraced my beloved bag of Starbucks Dark Cafe Verona, Dark Cocoa & Roasty Sweet Whole Bean Coffee.
This must be like what a Mother feels when she gets her child back after an Amber Alert, I thought to myself.
At $9.49 for a 12 oz bag, I have developed quite a habit. Granted it is nowhere close to what I spent on Vodka in a week, but it’s no tub of Folgers either. I plopped 3 in my cart, that ought to last me close to a week. Feeling a great sense of peace and stability, I threw a few more items in my cart and proceeded to the checkout. In Southern PA, It’s always good for some material.
Ironically, ” Hi, My Name is Krystal!” asked me how I was doing today. I took a deep breath and said, “Because I am alive, everything is possible.” She said she liked that, and I told her it was from a book I had read, “You Are Here” by Thich Nhat Hanh. “Who’s that?” she asked. “Thich Nhat Hanh is a Vietnamese monk, a renowned Zen master, a poet, and a peace activist.” I replied. “Oh” she said, confused, “I’m not real book smart, I’m more street smart.” In which I heard, “I’m not real smart, I’m imaginary smart”. I told her to have a great day!
From there I headed to the service desk to purchase my other overly priced and unhealthy addiction, cigarettes. I felt super classy and sophisticated, buying a carton of smokes in my Race For The Cure shirt. The woman in line behind me gave me a smug smile as if to say, “Well aren’t you just a walking contradiction?” To which I gave her a smile that said, “Isn’t it lovely that you still think it is 1985 and that you are still enjoying the benefits of wearing pleated pinstriped jeans!” But I told her outside of my head that I hoped she had a great day!
I returned home and filled my Miele built-in coffee maker with the intoxicating fresh beans, and made myself an absolutely heavenly, and I mean heavenly cup of coffee. I sat on my porch with my coffee and my cigarette, pondering what on earth I was going to write about today. I had a brief moment of fleeting guilt over not working out.
But It didn’t matter that I was in my work out clothes and not going to work out, I thought to myself. Because I’m sexy.
Categories: True Stories