I was hot, sweaty and tired after a long afternoon of writing followed by a brisk three-mile walk, but someone has to buy the groceries for my family and that someone is me.
Wearing my favorite emoticon-covered work-out tank and some scruffy shorts, I hopped into the car. I thought about running a brush through my hair, but it was windy day. Why bother?
I thought about slapping some make-up on, but why would I do that when I just needed a few things from the store?
You know where this is going don’t you?
While I was selecting some Walla Walla sweet onions, a woman near me said, “I like your shirt.” I smiled and thanked her.
That’s when she said, “Oh my gosh! Are you Cindy Hval? Did you write that book of love stories from World War II?”
When I nodded. She grabbed the guy stocking produce and gushed, “Do you know who this is?” And said some very lovely and kind things about War Bonds.
Of course, the produce guy wanted to know more. And then he said, “Hey! I DO know who you are, I read your column in the Spokesman Review!”
There’s a moral here. There’s a lesson to be learned.
For me it’s this: I can’t go grocery shopping anymore, ever again.
The end.
Cindy Hval 