Sunday, I went grocery shopping (it's a fascinating life I lead, I know). When I entered the store, the woman ahead of me apologized for clogging the lane as she paused to wipe down the plastic handle on her grocery cart.

“Sorry for holding you back,” she told me. “I always make sure to wipe down my handle.”

“Well,” I said. “I prefer to just get dirty, myself. But there's nothing wrong with a woman who likes a clean shaft.”

And her face turned red as an apple.

“Wow,” she said. “You just made a forty year old mother of three blush. I wonder what else you could make me do?no, I'm kidding. I'm happily married.”

I smiled at her as I walked away.

She was beautiful in a distinguished sort of way, and hot in an “other middle-aged women are totally envious of me” kind of way.

Later, I saw her in the produce section. She was picking out cucumbers and I busted up laughing.

“God,” she said. “The innuendo does not stop.”

Still later, she stood behind me in the check-out line.

“Wow,” she said. “It was just meant to be.”

“You know,” I said. “I have to admit, you've been a real good sport about everything. And you are an incredibly beautiful woman for a forty year old mother of three.”

“Well,” she said, for the first time offering traces of a southern accent. “I do enjoy flirting with the boys. And honey, when you have a husband who makes the kind of money mine does, you have to look good.”

“So, if he was dead broke, you wouldn't bother looking good?”

“No,” she said. “I'd still look good. But if he was dead broke, I'd be following you home. That's for sure.”

I hate people, sometimes. Sometimes I really do.