I went out today to whole foods to buy some groceries, fully intending to buy vegetables, maybe some cheap frozen shrimp, and some soy flour for this “low carb” recipe I have for sugar cookies. Well, I found myself in the deli section, which means I was sampling all the free cheese I could get my hands on. As I perused through all the tasty goudas and bries and something that resembled the leather of some old cowboy’s belt, I found myself at the desserts drooling over a fruit torte of some type. It had strawberries, raspberries, kiwi, some other fruits I can’t recall, and it was glazed and sitting happily on top of a sugar cookie crust. Just when I thought I would be able to slink back into the sea of shoppers around me, the guy behind the torte asked what my favorite album was.

A little shocked, I asked what album he was referring to. He pointed at my shirt, which had “Rush” emblazoned across the front. “I loved them in concert!” he said. Fondly remembering how much fun I’d had at the concert where I bought the shirt, I echoed his sentiment, recalling my favorite songs, favorite Alex Lifeson moments, the other tours I’d seen, and before I knew it I realized I’d not put on my wedding ring this morning. I swear, the embarrassment was palpable, though dessert-boy didn’t seem to notice. He kept on about how much he loved Neal Peart, and as I listened to him talking I started to wonder if he was gay or if he was hitting on me. I could see that he did have good fashion sense by the clothes I could see peeking around his white apron. Was that a little of a lisp I heard? Oh, who knows.

I started to talk about the book “Ghost Rider” that Neal Peart had written after his wife and daughter died, when dessert-boy brought up Loreena McKennitt, another of my favorite musicians. Apparently her husband had died tragically as well, and she’d bounced back after disappearing from the music scene. Suddenly I found myself very compelled to give this guy my number. Would he take it as a flirtation? I didn’t want to flirt, I was married. I mean I am married! I had simply forgotten my wedding ring today. I shoved my left hand in my pocket and continued the conversation.

After he helped me pick out a moon mountain torte (which he said with a giggle, and I quote, “will make you scream religious exclamations and utter animal noises”), I walked away wondering if I should have given him my number. I know so few people in this town, and just because he’s a guy I shouldn’t shy away from saying “hi, my name is Sharon, and I’d love to get to know you!” Ugh… even that sounds like a flirt to me. In college, which is the only time I ever dated (since I had ‘relationships’ in high school), I never gave out my number; I would always run into someone interesting in the music building or at an orchestra concert or after marching band practice, and we’d hang out. So, since I always surrounded myself with great guys to talk to, I never had that moment of leaving my number with someone or even asking them out. After having some great times with my guy friend, the hanging out would turn into a kiss or two, and before you knew it I was dating my best friend. It always seemed like that, which from what my girlfriends say is great, but when the breakups went badly I didn’t only lose a boyfriend, but I lost someone I really loved as a person, someone I’d called a very close friend before the dating started.

Wow, can you say tangent?

So, anyway, back to dessert-boy. Grant is out of town, and my mind started jumping to all these thoughts. What if I gave dessert-boy my number and he called me tonight? Would I be home alone dying for someone to talk to? Would he call me in the middle of one of my chocolate-induced guttural animalistic yelps of joy? Or, if I offered my number, would he even accept it? I decided to avoid the situation altogether.

I walked back through the deli and got some salad from the bar. I made my way up front to check out, when dessert-boy came back over to me at the self-checkout lane and asked what my favorite Rush album was. Again, I had that surge of wanting to give him my number, to keep this conversation going. I pushed it back and started rattling off favorite songs, since I’m terrible at remembering which albums I like. He chuckled at my stuttering. Oh god, I stuttered! Is that a flirt giveaway? He mentioned a song that I’d not heard before, and I got really interested; it is a very rare moment when someone can name a song by Rush that I haven’t heard at least once. So, I joked and said that now I had something nice to listen to while I was eating my chocolate. He gave me the biggest smile and the cutest giggle, and wished me good night.

I left the grocery store wishing that I hadn’t. If I go back in now, I might have diarrhea of the mouth and start spouting about how I really am married and that I forgot my ring and that I hoped I wasn’t hitting on him and that I know so few people in Louisville and that my husband is out of town but that it wasn’t an invitation to anything in particular but that if he wanted to continue the conversation that I’d love to have him over sometime. Wow, I’m pathetic.

To make myself feel marginally better, I decided to swing by Blockbuster and see what might be good to watch this evening. Like a woman on a mission, I walked straight to the TV section and picked up season 4 of Sex & the City. This entry, by the way, is added here after having seen the first 5 episodes. Maybe it’s inspiration, or maybe I just had to stop watching and get this out. Either way, I enjoyed writing this.