I think it has been several decades since I pissed my pants in public.
Got your attention, do I?
I think I may have mentioned that I like to start my day at Starbucks. Check my email, have a cup of caffeine, its my routine.
There is some promising personalities in the java house today.
There is a woman who is probably in her late 60’s, but desperately trying to be taken for her 40’s.
And she is a flirt.
A girl in her teens that flirts? Just old enough to have an inkling about sexuality?
A woman in her 20’s that flirts? This is the warriors age, ferocity makes up for experience.
A woman in her 30’s that flirts? At her sexual peak and biologically designed to deliver the goods at this age.
A woman in her 40’s? The cougar knows what she wants and likes, and is not too shy to demand it. (Usually with your balls in her hand)
50’s? Lets talk sweetie. You are allowed to be a sexual being, God bless and lord knows, this is an age that I find hot as hell, but the predator on the prowl mentality should be tapering off at this point.
Have your hormones checked.
60’s? Umm, really?
Sugar you have grandkids thinking about college. WTF? Its called dignity, lets look into it, shall we?
The other personality that was intriguing was the Jazz man.
Starbucks, much like a teenager that is trying new things, has horrible taste in music.
Its current phase is Jazz music.
And, as we all know, Jazz sucks.
But not to the Jazz man.
Head bobbing, fingers snapping. Eyes closing occasionally and he savors a particularly hot riff by Miles Davis.
Miles Davis may have been insane.
Jazz man had a whole groove going on.
Scruffy beard, tea shades, hipster hat at a jaunty angle.
The kind of white guy that might answer a question “Word.”
Just as I am about to pack my stuff and move closer and take notes, I make a little mistake.
And dump a Venti hot coffee dead center in my lap.
For those who are unaware, the venti is the largest hot size Starbucks offers.
There is a split second of time right after you do something stupid like this, that you exist in this little secret bubble of anonymity.
And then reality rushes in.
And embarrassment makes itself known.
The coffee was hot enough to make my genitals wonder if we were arguing, but not hot enough to scald.
And cargo pants? While they may be baggy and comfortable, all that extra material and pockets are like a sponge.
Half the room was staring, the other half had no clue.
Including the guy sitting next to me. Even when the cashier came out with a mop and mopped under his legs, the guy next to me never stopped texting. He just lifted his legs and took a sip of his coffee.
I however am seeing everything goddam thing around me, every look, every stare, every whispered “What happened?”, everything.
I am even hearing things that didn’t happen in my paranoia.
In my head, I heard the guy in line say “He pissed himself.” My rational mind knows he didn’t.
But I still had to stop myself from declaring to the room that I did NOT piss myself.
So I packed up, and left.
I went home to change.
But I still stopped back in for coffee when I finally headed in to work.
After all, addiction is addiction.