Wednesday, June 17, 2015

So Not Legal.

My life, guys. My life.

To start, I am going to answer questions that are necessary to completely appreciate this story:

Q) How old are you, Carmen?
A) 22.

Q) Why do you wear make-up, Carmen?
A) Because if I don't, I look like I'm in high school. I mean, even WITH make-up I get mistaken as a high schooler, but the chances of that happening are lowered.

Q) Wait Carmen, are you single?
A) Recently, I took the liberty of looking up the meaning of my name. It means, 'Nobel Virgin.'
This explains so much.
So yes, I'm single.

Now, I'm not completely thrilled with these facts. I mean, I'm not miserable and moping around all the time, but I also don't wake up every morning and think, "YES! Another day of being single and looking like a high schooler! Just what ever 22-year-old strives to accomplish, and I have achieved this without even trying!"

Anyway. Today, I went to visit my friends. I really hadn't been out in public at all that day, so I didn't bother putting on make-up.

My friends and I got on the subject of boys, and I was left to wonder how on earth I can diminish my awkwardness enough to attract the opposite sex.

During this encounter, I realized how I really hadn't eaten anything that day besides a couple of granola bars and cheerios, and how blasted hungry I was.

Thankfully, a Mexican restaurant sat right next door to where I had visited my friends, and I eagerly walked to the restaurant to get some type of subsistence for my body.

I walk up to order my food. Behind the counter, I see two pubescent high schoolers  probably between the ages 16-17, donning terrible looking man-buns.

"What can I get for you?" asked one.

"Small pork salad, please."

"Sounds good." he said.

He got the first part of my salad started, the handed it off to the second high schooler, who looked at me and immediately said, "WOAH! You look JUST like my cousin! That was FREAKY!"

"Maybe I am." I replied monotonously, because I really was not in a mood to talk. I just wanted my food.

The kid gave me a weird look. Then I said, "Just kidding. I'm not your cousin. I could act like her if you wanted me to, though."

"She is pretty cool. She's in the army and stuff."

"Nice." I replied, when really I'm thinking, 'I'm so blasted hungry, please just give me my blasted salad before I pass out from hunger."

He then began to ask me a series of various questions.

"What would you like on your salad?" he started.

"Um, those diced tomato things--."

"Do you rock climb at all?"

I blinked, then said, "Um. I mean, I did in the fifth grade once. Then my shoe fell off and I came back down, and didn't feel like going back up again."

"C'mon! You just gotta monkey crawl back on up there!"

"Yeah, I gotta try rock climbing again." I said, feeling my face turn red.

"Corn and onions on your salad?"

"Yeah."

"You really gotta try rock climbing again," he continued, "It's so great. Gotta get yourself out into the sun!"

My thoughts? "Um. I have a sun allergy. Are you implying that I look pale? Because I already know that. It comes with the redheaded gene. Back off."

. . . My subconscious gets a little defensive when I'm hungry or tired. I consider it to be part of survival mode. Please don't judge me.

What I really said?

"Yeah I think that's something I'd probably enjoy."

"Sour cream, ranch, and cheese on your salad?" he asked.

"No thanks. But does the mango dressing cost extra?"

"Uuuuuuugh." he said, looking from me, to the dressing, back to me, "I really like you. So for you, no, it's free"

"Well thanks."

"But you gotta give me your digits."

Crap.

". . . . . . . . . . . . I'm in a relationship."
Lie.
That's a big, fat lie.

"Ah man. Well, you have a good day!"

"Yeah, thanks. You too."

He slid my salad down, and the cashier began to ring up the price. Now, the cashier had such a thick, Hispanic accent I couldn't understand a WORD she was saying, so I just say 'yes' to everything. While I'm agreeing to whatever this lady is saying, High School Boy turns to his friend and says, "Hey, we're getting pretty good at this."

I rolled my eyes and fished out my money to pay the cashier. First of all, I wondered how old he thought I was. But I knew already: He probably thought I was somewhere between ages 16-19.
Second of all, why on earth would he hit on a girl that looked like his cousin? Is he attracted to his cousin?
Both of these facts are just flat out wrong and illegal.

"You know," said High School Boy to me as he slid back up to the cash register, "If you'd like, you and your boyfriend could come rock climbing with me sometime."

Here was my thought process: "Crap. Okay, which guy friend can I get to agree to pose as my fake boyfriend to go rock climbing and scare this high schooler away? WAIT. WHY AM I PLANNING ON GOING ON THIS? I HAVEN'T AGREED AND I DON'T NEED TO AGREE TO DOING THIS."

So what did I say?
". . . . . . . . . . . . . . .No."

"Ah, okay. Well have a good day!"

I had to pay for the stupid mango dressing.

So I leave and go to my friends apartment. I stayed there to eat and talk to my friend, then it was time to head home since it was getting decently late.

Now, the apartment complex my friend lives at double as housing for EFY kids. (EFY = a camp for LDS youth ranging from ages 16-18.)

As I left the housing, an EFY student raced up to the door and opened it for me. I smiled and said, "Oh, thank you!"

"I hope you find the right man." he responded.

"Thanks! I hope so too."

I walked a little bit farther, stopped dead in my tracks and shouted, "Wait. . . WHAT?!"

I turned around, but he was already gone and the door was shutting.

I don't know, guys. Maybe he was a little guardian angel there to give me hope that one day, someone will fall for me despite of my awkwardness.

Happy awkwardness, everybody.
Hey, guess how old I am in this picture.


Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The Mistake

My friends. Mistakes are a part of life. I think that's what this whole blog really proves. We can't get out of life without awkwardness, embarrassment and mistakes. And recently I've made a couple of them.

Recently, I returned home from a trip to Arizona. Although I was only there for three days, it was packed with fun-filled activities of four-wheeling, going to the Gilbert Temple, movie watching, eating delicious food and seeing good friends.

I returned home on a Sunday night and, let me tell you, I was exhausted. That Sunday had already included four hours of driving to see friends and to get to the airport, and a two hour flight back home to Utah. I was sweaty, slightly sunburned and just outright exhausted.

I landed back in Utah around nine o' clock and was ready to crawl into bed, but knew I had another hour drive back home to my apartment ahead of me.

As I left the airplane, one of my friends called me. I hadn't talked to her in quite some time, so it was fun to catch up briefly and see what she was up to. I talked to her as I waited for my dad to pick me up.

After a few minutes, I saw my dad roll up in my moms car. He wasn't driving to the edge of the sidewalk, but was stopping in the middle of the left lane. Odd, but whatever.

I continued talking to my friend as I waved at my dad in the car, and signaled that I was coming. I grabbed my suitcase and raced to the trunk of the car.

I popped it open. It began to raise a few inches, then my dad pushed a button and it began to close again.

"Very funny, dad," I thought as it closed.

I continued talking to my friend on the phone as I pulled on the latch of the trunk a second time. My dad repeated the process of closing the trunk.

"Oh come on," I grumbled to myself and said to my friend, "Hold on a second. DAD! DAD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OPEN THE TRUNK."

A third time. I pulled on the latch, and just as it began to raise, it lowered and closed once again.

"DAD! YOU'RE BLOCKING TRAFFIC! COME ON!" I apologized to my friend once again for yelling in her ear.

My dad then got out of the truck and approached me as I began to yank the now-locked trunk, grumbling to myself and my friend.

He gently touched my arm, and I whipped up to see . . . not my dad.

"Miss, I'm sorry, but I think you're mistaking me for someone else." he said.

I stared at him and said, "Oh. Crap. Yeah. You're driving my mom's car and well, you look like my dad. But hey! It makes a good story!"

"It does. You can tell everyone about it." he said as he walked back to the drivers seat and I walked shamefully back to the sidewalk with my luggage.

"Oh, I will!"  I yelled back to him. "I'll post about it on Facebook!"

And with that, he rolled off in my moms car as color rushed to my face.

One of these days I want to hear HIS side of this story.

Have an awkward day, everyone.