One year ago today I was doing the exact same thing. I took a pole class and then I stopped at KFC to pick up some chicken.
Every Labor Day my neighborhood has a potluck and last year I had the genius idea of bringing a bucket of KFC. My reasoning was that Boulder is the land of healthy, local, organic food and something as junky as fried chicken would appeal to people in a forbidden fruit kind of way.
I considered decanting the chicken onto a platter but Lonny was like, “No way babe. That red bucket is gonna sell!”
I had a pole class right before the picnic and as I dressed for class I considered putting something over my booty shorts for the walk to and from the car. But then I thought, Why bother? I’m just going to dart from the house to car and I’ll hit the drive through for the chicken-like substance. I’ll just throw on some wedges and go.
Jumping to the present, here’s a little something I learned today in class.
Anyway, I took the class and got in the car and tooled on over to the KFC drive-through; the only one in town. I pulled up and ordered a bucket of extra crispy when the guy tells me that they are out of chicken.
Huh? Is the world about to end? How can KFC be out of chicken?
It seemed that I wasn’t the only person with that bright idea. He told me that they are making more and it will be “fresh and ready” in 20 minutes.
Fresh? Oh the irony.
I couldn’t hang at KFC for 20 minutes so I got an iced coffee at a nearby coffee shop, not feeling too self-conscious about the shorts because I figured that yoga people are always prancing around in tiny outfits.
I killed some time and then went back to KFC. I couldn’t exactly hang out in the drive-through so I parked and went in. Walking through the parking lot I saw two young ne’er do wells hanging out front. One, who couldn’t be more than 20 years old (he had scraggly facial hair and looked like Shaggy) said, “How you doin’.”
I tend to run at the mouth when I’m feeling awkward so I started blathering, “So … do they have any chicken yet? Because I was just here and they ran out but they told me to come back in twenty minutes so HERE I AM just going inside to get some chicken bye!” and ducked inside. OF COURSE it wasn’t ready yet so I sat down.
Shaggy followed me inside and sat next to me. Awesome.
Shaggy: Dang girl, you look good.
Me: Oh, aren’t you sweet. (Trying to sound matronly)
Shaggy: What you been doing?
Me (There was NO WAY I was telling him I just came from a pole class): I just took a yoga class and I’m going to a family picnic. With my family. And they ran out of chicken so I’m waiting for them to make more. Chicken. So I can go.
Shaggy: What’s your name?
Me: I’m old enough to be your mother.
Shaggy: That don’t matter, girl. You look fiiiine.
Me: That’s kind of you to say, dear.
Shaggy: So, you got a man?
Me: I have three. A husband and two sons.
And he walked away. I paid for my chicken and got out of there as fast as I could. I could take this one of two ways.
I could be all, “I STILL GOT IT! I’m 41 and still reeling in the fresh meat!”
But the fact that I looked like a hooker (or at least an extremely desperate cougar, which is more likely) and trolling at KFC makes it extremely low hanging fruit. A hollow victory, if you will.
Never, I repeat NEVER, go to a fast food joint wearing booty shorts and heels. You will look like a street walker.
This year I am older and wiser. I’m sending Lonny for the chicken and I’m putting on some real shorts.
Time to cut the crap.
I’m gonna start with this lovely little instrument of parental torture. Should I keep it? Do I need a hole in my head?