Since Valentine’s Day came and went, and I don’t have any photos that are particularly exciting to chat about from the occasion, I thought I’d tell you guys an awkward story. Ready?
Let me set the scene: It’s my anniversary, sort of (there’s been a bit of debate over what day should be the date, so we settled on the day we met.. even if it wasn’t the, uh, most romantic.. anywho..), so I’m all excited about this secret trip I’m planning.
On my lunch break I went to Target because where else would I go for road trip snacks and last-minute surprise necessities? I thought I was going in for beef jerky and Oreos, but somewhere along the way I got distracted, which is so weird because that’s literally never happened to me or any of my friends before.
Next thing I know I found myself searching for undies, which were not exclusively for the occasion since my dog just so happens to eat all my panties anyway, and then I headed for the card aisle.
This is where things got weird.
All the anniversary cards were covered in watercolor lilies or glitter hearts and contained sentiments like, “Dear husband, I love you because you’re my everything and I’d die without you.” Or, “Hey sexy life partner of mine, can’t wait to wake up next to you for the next 20 years!”
This is the one extreme that Hallmark thinks men like, and the other is, “Look at this singing stripper shaking her butt! HAHA!” and “GOLF! BEER! POWER TOOLS! *nailed it*”
While these types of cards might scream, “INTIMACY” or “HILARITY” to you, they make me want to barf. Not only am I not married, but I can’t even decide on a real anniversary because modern dating norms make new relationships weird. (And no, I’m not implying that we met on Tinder because we didn’t.)
Usually I make my own cards because it’s cheaper and more fun anyway, but I knew I wouldn’t have time, so I kept searching, hoping that one would pop out at me and be the perfect mix of funny, sweet and raunchy.
Finally I settled on a simple and subtle number that read, “Dat Ass” on the front because I am an adult. Then I sauntered around the store some more collecting unneeded chapstick and La Croix until it was time to check out.
I don’t usually think too much about which check out line to get into despite my slight aversion to interacting with humans, so I picked the shortest line and went for it. The checkout boy was a heavy set young dude with acne and an obvious knack for talking to customers too long, even when they’re uncomfortable. I listened to him babble on about how outrageous the price of Legos are and continued to let my brain be fueled by the endorphins that come along with planning a surprise for someone.
The line built up behind me, and he started to scan my array of items as I became aware of the situation I put myself in. Awkward man-boy who talks too much.. a bunch of snacks.. underwear...
But as I started to shun myself for the panic building in my chest, he picked up the card and held it far too high above his head and exclaimed, far too exaggeratedly:
My jaw dropped. Not only was he holding up the entire line to embarrass me, but now he was also showcasing my “Dat Ass” card to the entire line of moms Christmas shopping behind me.
“Are you seriously judging me right now?! Don’t they teach you NOT to do that at Target school?” I asked, my face bright red.
“They don’t teach you not to have human decency,” he mumbled as he finally removed the offending item from the air and placed it into a bag.
I stood there with the meanest stare I could muster and continued on in very uncomfortable silence as he fumbled with my red silk bra and panty set.
Then he gets to the beef jerky.
“See, it’s also human decency that keeps me from putting beef jerky in the same bag as your underwear,” he says, clearly pleased with his cunning wit.
“WHATEVER,” I said, pissed and feeling the awkward vibes fuming off the yoga pants clad crew in line behind me.
After what felt like 534 minutes, he finished scanning my stuff, my anger fully formed, and he told me to have a good day.
I grabbed my bags and gave him the bitchiest look possible while thinking loudly, “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna say ‘thank you!’”
I spent the next three to four hours berating myself for not telling him where he could shove that card, and the endorphins finally returned as I sat in the car directing the boy to our mystery location, chomping down on beef jerky and Oreos.
Moral of the story? If you embarrass me in public, I'll give you dirty looks, I will NOT say 'thank you,' and I will eventually write about you on my blog.