If you saw my tweet yesterday that a bird had just flown into me, that wasn’t Twitter code. An actual bird did fly into me.
I was at the supermarket and was already in bad spirits.
I had just come from the deli counter where Dirty Deli Guy works. Normally I shudder to myself as I approach, anticipating the dirty remark that’s about to come from his filthy mouth. (“How did you like the salami, Princess?” That kind of thing.)
This time I shudder, same as always, and he says… NOTHING! (Well not nothing. He does say, “That’ll be $5.98.”)
It’s not that I like Dirty Deli Guy’s rude remarks, but somehow I’m hurt that he doesn’t feel compelled to make them anymore. To me this is just confirmation of what I already know: My looks are gone and it's game over for me. Good thing I'm married. Poor idiot 'bought the cow,' now he has to live with it.
As I’m walking to my car, digging for my keys, I push the cart a little too close to a pigeon that is eating some god-awful thing off the parking lot pavement. It flies up and hits me in the chest before flying upwards again and flapping its dirty wings through my hair.
I look around to see if people notice. They do. I find myself wishing I were with another adult. At least then I could laugh it off with someone instead of looking all flustered and stupid, fixing my hair and chuckling to myself.
“So it’s official. I'm hideous!” I shout, as soon as Practical Joe walks in the door. They say you're supposed to give your husband 15 minutes of alone time when he gets home, but I've never been able to do it. I'm like Sex and the City's Aidan when he bombards Carrie with questions as soon as she opens the door. ("Who'd you see? Where'd you go? Who'd you meet? What'd ya know?")
“It’s bad enough that Dirty Deli Guy doesn’t notice me anymore, but apparently I’m so translucent that birds are flying into me!” (I’m crying now. I have issues, I know.)
“Who’s Dirty Deli Guy? A bird flew into you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say angrily. Why do men always miss the point?
“You’re not ugly – you’re beautiful,” says Practical Joe, obligingly.
“You’re my husband, you have to say that.”
I continue prodding until I’m satisfied that he really means it. Then I fix my mascara and carry on with the rest of the evening.
It’s amazing what a bird flying into you can do to your self-esteem.