I was at the supermarket. Where I seem to be. Every day. Because I inevitably forgot to pick up something for dinner. On this particular trip, I needed a cart. I guess I had forgotten several somethings.

It had been raining earlier, so I had slipped on my rain boots from Costco with my chunky white sweater and some skinny jeans. It was definitely not my most exciting outfit. But, again, it wasn’t the most exciting day.

As I was battling two shopping carts that were stuck together, a rugged man of medium build peered over the edge of the small dividing wall at me. He was one of those fellows that made it impossible to tell his age. Life had either been hard on him or good, depending on his circumstances. He was missing all of his back teeth. In the middle of November, he still had a healthy tan and the skin around his eyes crinkled as he grinned at me. His dirty-blonde hair, made more dirty-blonde with actual dirt, was sticking up wildly in all directions.

He smiled at me. His blue eyes twinkled. His face turned to layers of leather. He opened his mouth, and with the utmost sincerity, he said to me, “Nice boobs.”

I stopped battling the shopping carts to stare at him. I couldn’t believe he would be so bold.

Actually, I could.

But, I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. It is the sad truth that after nursing two children and growing older, there would be many women whose line that would still apply to.

Me, not being one of them.

My chance of this applying to me is further reduced by 4,896,401 just by residing in Southern California.

Let’s just say, my odds weren’t good.

So, I stood there with my mouth open in shock as all around me the real deal that this phrase would apply to grabbed their carts and went on their way. Wait! Did I just say, “Real Deal”? Cross that out. And insert, well…insertions .

“What?!” I finally managed to gasp.

He grinned wider. I feared for his face. He repeated himself, “Nice boobs!”

I looked down at my chest. Then I looked up at him. Then down at my chest. This was repeated an embarrassing amount of times. I’m quick.

“Excuse me?!” I tried to reply indignantly. But in my head, I was rejoicing in a smack-me-in-the-face-what-kind-of-liberal-woman-am-I-that-this-would-flatter-me kind of way.

“Are you gardenin’ or somethin’? Gettin’ reddy to do some plantin’? Where’d ya get dem boobs? They’re the best I’ve seen.”

I realized that this man must have a screw loose. What the heck did my boobs have to do with planting and gardening? And what did he mean, where did I get them? In an attempt to not be even more graphic or vulgar, let me just say, dem boobs I got have never been mistaken as ones that have been purchased.

And best he’s seen?!?! Where has this man been living? Were we at the same grocery store? I had seen two better examples walk by in the two minutes I had spent standing there talking to him.

I shook my head sadly at the deranged man, replied a quick, “No.” Then I grabbed my cart and made my way into the store.

As I was wandering the aisles, my mind was spinning. I kept replaying the conversation in my head. Squeak. Who the heck did he think he was talking to? Squeak. What kind of man goes around saying things like that to women? Squeak.

Ugh! I looked down at my boots. I was trying to think. They were interrupting my thoughts with their annoying squeaky rubber.

My boots!

My squeaky beautiful boots.

My boots that would be perfect for wearing…while gardenin’…and plantin’!

I felt a rush of… Oh, I don’t know what. Relief that my town was not being invaded by vulgar men. That the rugged man just had a keen fashion sense and a love for nature. Happy that I had gotten to wear my boots on a rainy day.

I definitely did not feel sad. Nope. Not at all.

I was definitely not sad to have not received an inappropriate compliment.

Not. At. All.

Squeak.

* This post was written in response to The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge. It is a 100% sad, but true account of my trip to the grocery store.

“It’s The Little Things” will run on Saturday and then resume its usual Thursday time slot next week. I needed to get this story in by Friday. Thanks for indulging me! ; )

* P.S. I shared this on The Pleated Poppy!