Poor Mr. Adorable; once again I plan on laying the blame for my extreme blondness directly at his feet. You would think that after fourteen months of dating, the helium might be escaping his balloon, but no. He just gets more adorable, funnier, and downright intriguing as time passes, which keeps me in a perpetual state of dizzy blondness. I can’t think straight, wear mismatched shoes, and leave my flat with half my unruly hair straightened and the remainder looking like an electrocuted puddy cat. Or maybe I should blame this morning’s misadventure on Cam Newton? So many men, so much blame to mete out.
After previously residing in North Carolina for 17 years, it was necessary for my survival to become a Carolina Panthers fan. Then Cam’s brashness, swagger, and ridiculous talent hit my radar screen like a lovebug on a bumper. I was one hooked fan and saw a glimpse of heaven when my beloved boys were headed to Santa Clara. All those years of loyalty were about to pay off…not. By halftime I was in shocked disbelief and by the end of the 3rd quarter I was bereft. Bed and vats of cabernet would be my consolation prizes.
Waking at 5am to Mr. Adorable’s alarm, I decided to shoulder on and not exercise my Kervorkian cola option, though suicide certainly seemed like a reasonable reaction to my disappointment. Instead, I took my red, swollen-eyed self down to my dark, underground parking garage to head to my perfect part-time job as a church secretary (I know, I know, insert uproarious laughter here, but I love it!) and knew I was screwed the moment I pressed the remote to unlock my car. I clearly remembered arriving home in the rain on Saturday, completely distracted by my date that night, what I would wear, the art festival we were attending on Sunday and where we might have lunch. This handsome man scrambles my brain like potato chips in a juke box. Exiting my tiny car in the very dark garage, I turned on my interior light to make sure I had collected all my stuff and completely forgot to turn it back off. All I could think was that at least I had purchased jumper cables last year when this fate first befell me and Mr. Adorable on a dark and deserted beach. But, they were in my car, which I now couldn’t unlock. Aapis Crappis.
I decided to try my resort’s doorman prior to calling AAA, as today was, OF COURSE, the very day that a brand new pastor was starting at our church. Awesome first impression to be two hours late for the new minister dude. Oscar, our doorman, very sweetly inquired if I remembered that in the days prior to technology we actually inserted a metal key into one’s door lock to gain entrance. A jump box was located and soon my day proceeded, but not before 3 building employees gathered guffawing around my vehicle and had to hear the story of how I had not only left my light on for 36 hours, but had apparently forgotten the concept of locks and keys, as well. Surely the world needs more smart-mouth doormen possessing advanced college degrees?
For all you young sprockets who firmly believe life is over at 50, I can assure you there are many more important numbers that truly matter. Having, in your 60’s, the amped up hormones of a 14-year-old, the possible dementia of a 90-year-old, and the will and desire to live until you’re 85 simply because you are having such an amazing life!