He had noticed my car, which has a vinyl decal for my business in the window, and struck up a conversation that led to telling me where I could get a job making six figures because I was good looking, if I wanted another line of work, and then hitting on me and, as part of giving me the website for that other job, giving me his phone number.
I wasn't at all interested in the number. Even if I weren't happily married, he wasn't my type.
But for just a little while, I did imagine myself as that other woman -- the woman I used to be just six short years ago.
The woman who wore heels and dresses and makeup every day and who never left the house with her hair in a ratty pony tail, wearing a pair of dirty jeans or shoes with dog poop embedded in the soles.
The woman who knew she looked good and counted on it to make her job go better some days, instead of the one who was lean and hard and didn't give a crap because she spent her time with children and dogs who loved her regardless of her appearance.
I imagined having that kind of money and what I could do -- help my daughter out and make life easier for what remains of my family, support causes, save for the future.
I thought about driving a new company car and spending a lot of time on the road, instead of having two well worn vehicles that don't leave the driveway every day.
I imagined myself as that woman.
That woman wouldn't need a back seat full of child safety seats and Disney movies and trash from little people snacks. She wouldn't get up early to greet snuggly little people, who all too soon will be big and marching off to school. She might not have time for lazy afternoons chasing children around the yard, or just hanging out watching the guineas and laughing at the girls' attempts to mimic their crazy behavior. Her schedule would mean she couldn't always be there for a host of dogs and their families, or dogs without families who need a place to stay until a rescue can find them a foster or new home.
She probably wouldn't have days of freedom, where she could be crazy and take two Zumba classes and a yoga session if she wanted to, or sit home and knit and watch "Downton Abbey" all day. She would give up comfortable ties to life at a pace that doesn't depend so much on the world around her, but more on the needs of those closest to her.
It didn't take me long to know I didn't want to be that woman. Not for a six-figure salary. Not for a seven-figure salary. Not for all the money I might ever need.
I tossed the website and the phone number together.
I hope he won't be too disappointed.
