The Oracle Has Spoken

Sometimes you're hot.

And sometimes you're so hot, you can hardly stand it. That's me for the last few days. Like Friday, I was trying to unpack the books in my un-air-conditioned office, in my un-air-conditioned workplace, and I had a moment of intense, visceral understanding of the word "sweltering". I only managed to dump out the contents of a few boxes before I was stripped down to my tank top, sweating, sticking my face in front of my tiny office fan, trying to keep my makeup from sweating off. It didn't work. And it didn't take me long to decide that rather than pass out from heat stroke and risk having a new colleague find me inert on the floor like a freshman at a frat party--which wouldn't be the greatest first impression--I should go home to try to lower my body temperature. Which didn't really work, anyway.

So the last few days, I've been hot...that hot that is so hot you don't even want to shower because the effort of hair-washing will create heat that will outweigh the cooling effects of the water...that wear-no-clothes, don't-move-much, close-your-eyes-and-think-of-winter kind of hot. Just hot.


So yesterday, I'm dealing with this kind of gross, overwhelming heat when I realize that I have to go to the grocery store or else face both a lunch and dinner of oatmeal. And that for oatmeal, I'd have to stand over the hot stove. So with my hair in two messy little pigtail buns, I throw on a pair of sailor jeans, a wine-colored tank with a smattering of gunmetal sequins around the deep scoop neckline, and a tissue-thin jersey cardigan in broad sage and white stripes. I have no makeup on, I'm sweaty, and I'm thinking that I'm barely acceptable to walk through the aisles of the Kroger, but I swipe on some bright lip gloss and remind myself that hey, a girl's gotta eat.

I shop quickly to limit my exposure to the public and then make my escape. While I'm loading the contents of my cart into Sugar Magnolia's hatchback, I sense someone staring at me, in that way that you know that someone is staring at you, even when you can't see them. I tilt my head just enough so I can see the rubbernecker out of my peripheral vision, and what do I see? An older lady with a grocery cart, maybe in her early 60s, in khaki shorts and a white tank top. I see she is a fellow haircolor enthusiast, but her hair is a brassy gold, short, and blow-dried up and back, making a magnificent, puffy mushroom of hair that's signature 1980s professional. She stands behind me, watching me for a long time, and I notice that she fidgets, as if she is uncomfortable or in some mild state of distress.

"Clearly she's a woman in need of help, but she's afraid to ask," I think. "I'll help ya out, sister! This is a case for Great Big Girl!"

I turn to the woman and smile and say, "Hi. Can I help you with something?" You know, like I work there, although I clearly don't, since I'm not wearing the uniform blue polo.

The woman fidgets a little more, and I notice she's not distressed--just slightly embarrassed. I can tell she's considering running away before she tentatively says, "It's just that you look just like this woman on this show I watch all the time..."

"Let me guess," I said, trying to ease her embarrassment. "Is it that woman from Criminal Minds?" I figured that I wouldn't use the actor's name, since no one has ever used it to me. "A couple of other people have said that to me."

She relaxes and exclaims, "YES! It's just that I've watched that show, you know, every week for the last several years, and I absolutely love that character. She has such personality! Such individuality!" And this woman, just your everyday Midwestern woman in her early sixties--probably married to someone retired from the GM plant, maybe retired herself from the hospital or the post office or the library, probably a grandmother who watches her grandkids on Tuesdays and Fridays--starts to get visibly excited while talking about Penelope Garcia. Really excited. She's practically glowing.

"And the resemblance..." she says, looking at me--really looking at me, "...it's uncanny. And cute!" And we both laugh, and she makes as if to walk away before she changes her mind and stops herself.

Still smiling, but with some serious gravitas, she catches my eye and says, "Don't lose that. Don't ever lose that." Then she holds my gaze for a good five count, and then she walks away.

As she's walking away, I promise her I'll try...but I could tell she didn't really need to hear me promise. The Oracle had spoken.

Rust City is a strange place. There's magic around every corner.