All the kids and all the crazy people are up early in the morning. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a generalization, but there’s nothing like leaving the house early on a Sunday to remind me that I’m a minority here, unless I now fit into the latter category, which at times wouldn’t surprise me.
Most normal twenty-five-year-olds are fast asleep in their beds, recuperating after creating all the late-night noise that I, tucked into my bed at a shockingly early hour, had to listen to through my window.
As a result, I’m sitting outside the café, sipping my decaf latté – oh, how I could benefit from that caffeine! – trying to get a bit of writing done while deflecting strange and bizarre comments from the town’s post-party-night weirdos. Here’s a sampler:
“Are you the horse girl?” Nooo, definitely not. I don’t know how to touch a horse, let alone ride one.
“Hey, you’re that redhead I met down the street and you gave me money for the campaign, right?” I say it must be my mysterious twin, Heather. (Read post here.)
“Let me guess your age. Seventeen?” “I have two kids at home!” “Thirty-five? You really don’t look it.” Gee, thanks.
“You look like a person I once knew. She was a cow girl.” Man, if I’d known wearing my husband’s fedora would get me this much attention, I should have bought one years ago!
One guy tells a painfully drawn-out story about a friend’s dog’s funeral that took place in China with a nun and monk present. There’s now some debate over how to get the ashes through customs to bury in Canada.
Most stellar of all is a tottering, scruffy, word-slurring gentleman, chugging orange juice in a mad attempt to cure his hangover: “I think you’re really attractive.”
He waxes as poetically as one can in that state, until I pull out the big guns: “Thank you very much, but I’ve really got to get some work done now.” I’m quite defensive of my alone time.
He shuts up after that but continues to stare awkwardly. I turn my chair outward to face the street. Eventually he gets on his bike, yelping loudly at a girl who’s jogging by, and disappears from sight.
As irritating as disruptions can be, they also provide much creative fodder for writing. I can’t complain, plus it’s funny.