Yesterday Basil and I drove to Greenville to meet with our insurance agent, Stan. Yes, this is what we do on our mornings off now. We get insurance. We are now officially old married people, and should be shot and put out of our misery. Basil may still have hope. He does still put on old Sonic Youth albums before making coffee some mornings. I, on the other hand, am hopelessly uncool and lame.
The insurance buying was going just fine, and I’d had too much coffee on the way to the office, so I had to make a trip to the little old ladies room. As I was walking back into the office, Stan’s secretary, who I am sure is a wonderful human being but had a temporary lapse of brain function, blurted out, “ARE YOU PREGNANT?” After my brain had stopped rattling around in my skull brainpan, I laughed and said, “Lord, no, honey. I’m just fat!” The secretary turned a very lovely shade of purple, and I walked back into Stan’s office.
Basil and I drove straight to the YMCA and picked up the paperwork for a family membership. I guess it’s time for me to give birth to this food baby I’ve been carrying around for the last two years before it turns into twins!