I am one foxy mama

When you get to a certain age and the top half of your body starts to converse with your lower half, any amount of attention from the opposite sex is greatly appreciated. Heck it is revered as a symbol that “you’ve still got it.” If a train should strike your spouse dead, you won’t die surrounded by 40 cats.

I reached this age about eight years ago. In other words, when I was eight months pregnant, guys would still pump gas for me-- a week later with a kid in tow, I had suddenly become invisible. With three kids it is different because you can never be truly invisible with three little darlings around (though there are times I wish the floor would swallow me up). No, now I am like a communicable disease that must be avoided at all costs-- which reminds me I need to up my husband’s life insurance.

Things were different last week though. I was a new woman, a kid-less foxy lady dressed in stripped shirt, velour grey “yoga” pants and a zip jacket (also known as the hip six month expecting mom outfit as I realized at the end of this story). But for now, it is 4 a.m. on the day of my flight to Texas. I had stayed up all night because I was afraid if I went to sleep I’d be too tired to drive (ignore the logic and just go with me). I’m bedraggled. My hair is a mess of curly knots and I’ve yet to “put my face on.” Plus, I’m carrying a big pillow, a blanket, a hardbound copy of Harry Potter and a carry-on bag. There is no way I am sexy or cute. Actually I wasn’t even thinking about it (obviously). I just wanted to catch my plane.

So as I wandered through the Sacramento airport, this security guard came up to me and said “You’re standing in the wrong line.” Then he pointed to a line that I doubt NASA could see the end of.

“Hey, don’t worry about. I’ve got you covered. Come with me and pretend you are her daughter,” he said, pointing to a little old lady in a wheelchair.

Then he helped me with my bags and chit-chatted with me in the elevator about my travel plans.

“Have a nice trip you foxy mama,” he said as I walked away.

I blushed. Wow! I do still have it, and then because he used the term mama, I looked in the mirror.

Did he think I was pregnant?

I looked around and saw two pregnant ladies dressed in similar outfits. What the heck was this some sort of bump in my tummy uniform!

I went from foxy to horrified in two point three seconds. I called my mother.

“Do I look pregnant?” I asked her.

“ARE you?” she said.

“Heavens no,” I said.

“Well then of course not,” she said.

“Yes, well this guy just called me a foxy mama,” I said.

“That is an expression,” she said.

“No body uses it,” I said. “And he let me use the elevator with a lady in a wheel chair.”

“Maybe he wanted to talk to you,” she said. “Maybe he was just being nice.”

I left it at that decided I’d rehire my personal trainer when I get home. I’m wearing a bikini this summer even if it’s not in Mexico (because I only dress like that on vacation and Mexico is the only place hubby will take me-- except for Las Vegas because he likes the girls--- argh!).

OK so I had settled on the fact that I was a dumpy old mother when the garbage man waved at me. Oh you back of the truck riding man-- thank you for giving this woman some hope. I could be a garbage man’s wife should a train strike my husband dead.

Later at a department store, a male clerk walked over from the accessories department and wanted to show me some of his. I told him I wasn’t interested and asked if he could direct me to the children’s department. I stepped back three feet like I carried the plague and told me it was on the bottom floor. I should have known this. One rule in the retail business is that all children, queen-sized women and pregnant women must be kept out of sight, so those departments are either in the basement or on the top floor next to gift wrap.

Things only got better when I got home. I swung into the gas station and the clerk smiled at me and asked me about my trip-- I know it’s got to be because I looked HOT in my blue jeans and pink sweater after 10 hours of traveling. I couldn’t have been because he was just a nice guy-- hey I’ll take it whenever I can.