Times this week when I looked ridiculous:

The time when I had just bought eleven plus bags of groceries and apartment supplies and had decided I did not want to carry the items in two trips from the parking lot behind my apartment, up the stairs, and into my living quarters. Instead, I decided to put most of the bags on one arm, a few on the other, and, with the arm that had less groceries, pick up the free 12 pack of kiwi strawberry soda I was given at the store. As such, I hobbled around my apartment building with a vast white wreath of goods that adorned my midsection. I say hobbled because it was heavy and I had to move slowly. As I proceeded up the stairs, I was too wide to walk up facing the stairs; I had to turn slightly and grapevine myself up and around the corners. While I was carefully maneuvering myself, my neighbor, on a smoking break, decided to be friendly and chatty. I am pleased we are becoming better acquainted and that he started the conversation this time. Maybe it helped that I looked ridiculous.

I needed a frying pan for cooking and wanted it for the immediate future so I could make crepes from the six eggs I had broken the day before when I had tried to push too many bags of groceries onto the counter and two bags did not cooperate (please see story above). I bought a frying pan and had not taken a bag in my efforts to not take bags when I don’t need them for my current task or for use at home. This meant that when I walked to my apartment that evening, I was carrying my purse and a frying pan. It was evening when I got close to my apartment and something startled me. I held my frying pan at attention until my nerves settled. A few seconds later my mind evaluated the last few moments of my life and passed judgment that I looked ridiculous.

I believe in the literal running of errands. That meant that today for my morning run I ran to the grocery store to pick up butter and salt so I could make crepes with the frying pan I had bought the day before (please see story above). I ran through the store—pretending I was on Supermarket Sweep—and found the butter and the salt. I proceeded to check out. The bagger asked if I wanted a bag; I politely declined (please see story above). I dashed out the store and began to wonder what I looked like. I was a girl in running clothes, jogging up Main Street, carrying a box of butter and a cylinder of salt. I pretended to pump the salt like people who run with weights but then I stopped because I looked ridiculous.

I am now sitting in my kitchen and typing out this these stories in between the flipping of crepes. I have a pretty good stack now, but I keep burning the second side because I am not paying full attention to the crepes. This is my last one; I am determined to time it right. I wait to flip it and quickly try to turn one side over. Well, too quickly. This crepe is a little thicker than the others and so he folds in half like a little taco shell. No! I try to pull his sides apart but he is slowly fusing together. This will not do! I try, again, to pull apart the half circle sides but he will not bend and the tips of my fingers burn from the heat of the crepe in the pan. The heat on my fingers causes me to pucker my lips and suck in the air around me doing an inverse whistle. Desperate times come; I take the pan, tip the side and watch the crepe fall onto the counter. I grab a fork and knife and rip the two parts aside, making three pieces of mutilated crepe. I drop the uncooked sides back on the skillet and watch the fragmented pieces begin to cook fully comprehending that I still look ridiculous.