The Hat, Part II

True to my word, I wore that hat all weekend long.  We went to the falls; I wore the hat.  We went to the water slides; I wore that hat.  We grilled burgers; I wore that hat.  We chatted late into the night (or morning); I wore that hat.  We got fried pies on our way home; I wore that hat.


Once we arrived back at the house, The Dad and I unloaded the minivan and for all intents and purposes, unpacked our bags and put away the left-over groceries and thought we were going to sit down and chillax.

Hellmart called and said they were worried about me - I hadn't been there in a few days and they just wondered how I was doing.  To ease their minds (and to get toilet paper), I went to Hellmart.  I started to take off the hat.  But I had just spent six hours in the minivan and the hat needed to stay put to cover my well-travel hair.  So with my hat firmly planted on my head, I made my way up to Hellmart.

The little 96-1/2 year old greeter met me at the door and offered me a cart. "I love your hat," she commented, and I smiled.  "It makes you look very mature."

"Thank you," I said, but I wasn't entirely sure it was a compliment.  When I was 19 years old, I wanted to look mature.  At almost-42 years old, with AARP on my 10-year-radar, I wasn't sure "mature" was what I wanted used to describe me.  I refrained from kicking the greeter and walked on.

I ran into a school volunteer.  "Mrs. D?" she questioned as if she weren't sure it was me. Then she cocked her head to the side and with a down turned mouth, she asked, "How are you?"

"Fine?" I questioned, because while I felt fine, he tone and body language made me feel like I should maybe be feeling absolutely not fine.  

She patted my arm and said she'd keep me in her thoughts and prayers and walked on.  That was very, very nice of her.  And apparently in my current state, I needed thoughts and prayers.

I continued to the toilet paper and grabbed my double rolls.  A student came running up to me as I made my way to the not-so-express lane, "Mrs. D!" she hollered, and I turned to face her. "OHMYGAH, Mrs. D!  You're sick!"

"I'm sick?" I questioned.

"Well, yeah," she squealed, "Are you going to get better?"

I furrowed my brows and stared straight at her, "I think I will.  I'm really not sick."

"OK, Mrs. D.  I'm sorry you're sick." She listened in the summer just like she did during the school year. "I hope you get better," she called as she turned and skipped on to her momma.

The hat had not served me well.

I checked out completely perplexed. I thought my hat made me look very chic, very cosmopolitan, very California.  At Hellmart, though, I looked mature, sick and in need of prayer.

As I lugged the toilet paper into the house, I explained all of this to The Dad.  "I thought I looked suave in the hat," I concluded.

"I think suave is pushing it," he said, skating on thin ice.  "But," he continued, "You didn't shower this morning, you have no make up on and your shirt has BBQ on the front.  It's not your best look."  Honesty is his best quality.

I heaved a big sigh.  It was true: I wasn't at my best.  But I do know what to wear to my next pity party!