Freaky Sunday

Georgia commented last night that I'd passed on sharing some good blogging material, and she was right. Considering she was with me all day, I'm sure she was disappointed that I didn't write about it. I was tired--and I'm still too tired to write anything clever. But I've been thinking about yesterday all day today, Monday--about how it illustrated the ways Georgia and I are alike.

First, we walked early in the day, since her knee hasn't healed completely. I was happy to walk instead of jogging, because I'm old. Then we went to Robek's, and both of us got our usual, the Acai Fit shake, 24 oz. This was our lunch. Next, we went to Michael's so I could buy some yarn. I like to crochet scarves, and she likes for me to give them to her. As we got out of the car to head into the store, a middle-aged man passed us wearing sweat pants and (clearly) no underwear. It happened quickly, and he was gone. I figured my daughter had missed it, and as I was congratulating myself on the decision to spare her and not comment, she muttered, "Grossss," with a little shudder. We walked around Michael's discussing all the reasons a man might (and should not) go out in public like that.

By the time we finished that errand, we were finished with our smoothies and were ready to settle in at Starbucks and get some homework done. (We both always have homework.) Sears is at the other end of the Michael's strip, and when we passed it, we saw a group of teenagers picketing--signs saying something about a "cleaner catalog." Now East Cobb is full of Jesus freaks, so we couldn't be sure if they were for real, or if they were some knock-off improv everywhere group. They didn't really look earnest, in any case.

As we slowly cruised by, craning our necks, we almost hit another teen jumping the wall of the garden department and running out into the parking lot. He was wearing a backpack and looking like he'd pilfered himself some Miracle-Gro. We tried to watch as long as we could, but we were blocking traffic, so we finally crossed the intersection to the adjacent strip mall (there are six within stone-throwing distance) where Starbucks is.

We ordered tea and plugged in our laptops. We'd just gotten comfortable when a guy walked in wearing black jeans, black t-shirt, black jacket, and an old gas mask. He glided straight by us and into the restroom. I was thinking it myself when Georgia said in all seriousness, "This could be bad." Was he postal? His jacket was large enough to hide a pipe bomb and several grenades. We were both pretty afraid, but it had begun to storm really bad, and it would have been a lot of trouble to pack up all of our stuff and go out in the rain.

Turns out he was just another lame kid looking for attention, silently daring everyone to stare at him or say something--the kind of kid who makes you ashamed of yourself as a teenager. Yeah, he was sticking it to The Man, right there in the corporate coffee house, as he sipped on his grande latte. Like the teens who used to hang out in Little Five Points when I lived there in the mid-80's. The ones with the green mohawks, pierced tongues, and 3000 dollars' worth of braces, driving their moms' Volvo's. Revolutionaries.

The point is, in the time it took us to figure out his schtick, we could have been blown clear to TJ Maxx. But, Georgia and I, we did NOT want to get wet.