Bless Your Heart

I tried not to tap my foot impatiently as the cotton-topped little old lady in front of me in the checkout line slowly loaded her groceries on the belt. Apparently Express Lane didn’t apply to the patrons, just the number of items. Although, on second look, she’d packed more than 15 items on the belt, too.
Pasting on my best smile, I asked her, “Ma’am, can I help you load up your things?”
“Why, yes, dear. How lovely of you to offer!” she said as she ambled towards the front of the line to pay.
“It’s no problem, happy to help,” I said, and quickly finished loading her very full grocery cart onto the belt. Just then, a handsome stranger joined the line behind me, carrying a bouquet of red roses and a box of chocolates. Somebody in this town is going to be thrilled tonight. I took him in from his thick, dark hair and chocolate eyes, to a well-defined chest, fitted jeans, and dark leather shoes. I snapped my gaze back up to see him give me a smile that could melt a popsicle, and a nod before he assessed the reality that this lane would not be moving quickly.
“So dear, are you married?” The lady asked, inspecting my clearly bare left hand. I reached up and tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ear to remove the offending digit from her scrutiny.
“No ma’am, not yet.” I forced a smile, despite my inward loathing of the question. I got it; I was thirty. Most of the women I went to high school with were well past married and on to their second or third child. However, Prince Charming had yet to show himself. So there I was: thirty, unmarried, and no kids in sight—much to my mama’s chagrin.
It’s not like I wouldn’t love to find someone—if not to marry, then at least to have a serious relationship with—but I have always struggled with putting myself out there. Being vulnerable is hard. Plus in this town, once that first blush of your twenties has passed, everyone started treating you like a bug under a microscope . . .