well, hi there

Yesterday was hot. Blazing hot, after six weeks in the single-digit degrees. Having celebrated the advent of Spring by shaving, I wore a pretty, flowy brown skirt that hits about mid-calf and a flower-print blouse over a tangerine tanktop. After work, I took off the blouse, leaving me in the tank -- modest straps, V-neck with some fun half-ruffling that comes a little low, empire cut -- which, while not in any way immodest, is admittedly on the clingy side. To complete the attire I wore casual open-backed sandals with chunky heels, big dangly bronze earrings with matching necklace, and sunglasses.

So I stopped at a gas station on the way home, one with an open garage attached, which I passed on my way inside, and as I walked in and approached the guy behind the counter, he stepped back and his eyes went enormously wide in a strange combination of delight, appreciation, recognition, and horror -- which I didn't understand until I heard the walkie-talkie in his hand -- presumably connecting him to the garage -- crackle and roar, "OH. MY. GOD."

Looking half-protective and half like he wanted to fall through the floor a few feet, the attendant said into the talkie, "Don't say anything. Mike. Don't--say--ANYTHING." He then proceeded to wait on me in an effusion of demonstrated apology, which I found cute, even offering to throw away the garbage I was digging out of my purse, and as he was ringing me up, he muttered, "I don't want him to say anything."

I thanked him, smiled, and left.

But see, those kinds of experiences always leave me feeling weird. Not so much like a bombshell, but like I've grown a tail or I'm bleeding profusely or there's toilet paper sticking to my back or something I don't know about.

Still, it was funny.