About a week ago, Jake and I were walking into the commissary on, perhaps, a day that can be referred to as "The Day with the Most. Humidity. Ever." We were getting our errands (ie, birth control pick-up and groceries) done early because, well, just look back to what I titled that day. I wanted it over before it got all Hades-like out.
It was one of those days where, because I wanted to be inside an air-conditioned establishment, I moved slower than molasses, and the car seat went all stranger danger on me and became impossible for me to unfasten.
As luck would have it, I felt UBER cute that day. Ya know those days? It's like "HEY, people! LOOOOK AT MEEEE! I'm in public AND cute!!". So, I'm training to maintain the cute while simultaneously controlling the newfound places my sweat is excited to explore.
I find a shopping cart in the parking lot, set Jake up in it and am headed toward the sweet, sweet air-conditioned building when a woman stops me. I don't know if the commissary was doing this before bin Laden's death, but they're doing a 100% military ID check as soon as you walk past the automatic doors.
I must have looked like I reached an oasis because the woman decided to detail how much hair I have, as if it's any news to me:
" Girllllll, look at you! You've got all that hair. Wooo-eeee, you must be HOT! You look like that one girl on that soap opera. What's it called? Shooot, I don't know but you've got all that hair, it must keep you soo hot! GIRL, you must be HOTTT..."
I SWEAR, to sweet baby Jesus, that the more she detailed how much my hair insulated me, not only did my hair grow but my sweat doubled. I kept a polite smile on my face, as I felt sweat trickle down my back, and silently cursed her for keeping me just far enough from the interior of the building to enjoy the full effects of the AC.
For some reason, I'd take a gamble to say that she's the woman that tells a 9-month pregnant woman how large and in charge she is.