I am out of creamer, a rarity and travesty in my house. I run to the store to escape the emergency of no coffee in the morning. I’m sitting at the red light, look over to see a clean cut, forty-something year old man in a Lexus bee-bopping to his favorite jam.
I grin because I love music, with the exception of hard rap and John Meyer, and am constantly getting looks for singing like I’m giving a concert in my car… Target… grocery store… I can break out into song pretty much anywhere, to my children’s great embarrassment.
The bass gets louder and I look over to find Lexus still bee-bopping, but now he has his finger, knuckle deep, in his nose. I mean, truly, he is mining for gold and completely unaware that his windows are made of clear glass.
Why do men forget that their cars, no matter the make or model, are not pods of invisibility that hide their disgusting habits? I never see women picking their noses in their cars, because we remember that the drivers on Six Forks Rd don’t lose visibility when the windows are rolled up.
The light turned green, I got my creamer (crisis averted) and was on my way back to the house but got stopped at the same light. Santana came on the radio and the concert kicked in. Windows and sun roof were open, beautiful day, who wouldn’t enjoy my free concert, right?
A 70+ year old man, that’s who. He looked at me like I had my finger up my nose.
Life is full circle, y’all.
Outrageously Ordinary 