I've been getting a flood of emails from readers around the world lately.
I love it, I really do.
It's nice to know people are reading what I write, and even better to hear from them. Seriously, if you've ever thought about writing me – please do. It makes my day to hear from you.
The other night, right before I fell asleep, I read a couple long emails from readers. One commented on how "together" my life is in spite of my disability and chronic severe pain.
As much as I appreciate the thought, I kind of rolled my eyes when I read it because I am so not "together"!
I am, in fact, one of the least "together" people you could ever meet.
(You can put me into the "very chaotic life" category instead.)
Anyway, after reading the emails, I went to sleep. I debated setting my alarm for the next morning but I decided not to. I always wake up early. Also, even if I do manage to sleep a few minutes later than normal, my retrievers wake me up because they get hungry.
There's absolutely no chance of me sleeping in late, in other words.
The next morning I partially opened one sleepy eye and saw my clock staring back at me.
It read 10:30.
TEN THIRTY AND I HAVE TO BE AT AN APPOINTMENT A HALF HOUR AWAY AT ELEVEN!!!!
I jumped out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on my ugliest pair of yoga pants and an old black t-shirt and flew downstairs. As I was doing this, I made a mental note: "New pain meds make me sleep like a rock for hours on end!"
I fed my dogs, who were happily snoozing - instead of acting as my alarm clock as they usually do.
I had no make-up on, of course. (You don't still think I have my life "together," do you?) I ran my fingers through my hair, to replace brushing it, as I grabbed my keys and drove a half hour to my waxing salon.
Yes, that's right –
My eleven o'clock appointment was at my waxing salon.
"How are you?" they asked gleefully, as I ran in the door.
"I just woke up and I'm about to get my pubes yanked out, how do you think I am?" I asked in return.
They all laughed.
Even other customers, in the waiting area, laughed.
The women who work at my waxing salon think I'm so funny.
(I was not joking.)
A few minutes later I was doing the naked frog for a way-too-cheery woman.
I hadn't even had a morning cup of coffee yet.
(As it turns out, having hot wax poured there right after you get out of bed will wake you up way faster than coffee will.)
I hadn't applied mascara, showered, or brushed my hair yet for the day. I have blonde eyelashes so mascara is a must – you can't even tell I have eyes without it.
I was looking, and feeling, my ugliest.
A short while later, my appointment was over.
I walked out of the salon and ran smack into the hottest fireman who has ever existed anywhere in the universe.
And by "ran into him," I mean I ran into him.
(Yes, I'm really that together!)
Why are firemen always so good looking?
There's some hidden law, somewhere, that states: You are not allowed to be a fireman unless you're exceedingly hot and make women swoon on sight.
He laughed at me.
I gaped at him.
I couldn't even talk at first, I was so stunned at how good looking he was.
(He was probably just as stunned at how unattractive I was.)
Then he glanced up and saw I had just walked out the door of the waxing salon.
He instantly had a full-on grin on his face.
I blushed profusely, which is ridiculous because for all he knew I had just gotten my eyebrows waxed, right?
Except, if I had gotten my eyebrows waxed I probably wound not be blushing profusely?
Finally, I stammered out an apology for running into him, all the while wondering if I could ask him for permission to take his photo.
(Yes, that really is how my brain works.)
Surely he wouldn't mind having his photo on the Internet with a caption reading, "Hottest fireman ever!" or, "Fireman I met when I had a freshly groomed twat and no make-up on."
Before I could act on the thought, I heard someone call out to Hot Fireman. It was one of his friends on … get this … a fire engine.
Hot Fireman turned, and quickly joined up with his friends.
The lights and sirens went on even before he climbed up on the engine ….
I watched as the truck pulled out of the parking lot and raced away.
And just like that,
Hot Fireman was out of my life.
© Twenty Four At Heart