Last summer, I was hanging around the guacamole section at the grocery store, gently squeezing the avocados in a non-creepy manner, as one does. These two cargo shorts-clad frat boys hovered nearby, presumably arguing over which avocado would pair well with the 24-pack of Coors Light in their grocery cart. I was mostly minding my own business, silently judging them for having crappy taste in beer, until one of them approached me cautiously.
“Excuse me, Ma’am…”
He then proceeded to explain the debate he and his bro were having. Should they get one of the rock hard avocados or a sad mushy one? Not that I heard any of this, as my mind was too busy lingering over that one word. Ma’am.
This has been happening more frequently of late. I made a note to myself to make an appointment with my dermatologist for a vat of industrial grade Retin-A. And then I sent them back to the frathouse with a too-ripe avocado, which as soon as they cut it open, they would soon discover that like my own rapidly deteriorating visage, it too was speckled with brown age spots.