W and I took the kids to Washington, D.C., this past weekend.
On the way, we spot a car with an HRC sticker on its rear bumper. Upon passing, we look in through the passenger window.
W: Looks like a guy and a girl (said with a twinge of disappointment).
Me: Are you sure?
W: Oh. Maybe not.
Me: You know, the best lesbians are those who get mistaken for guys.
W: So true (smiles and squeezes my hand).
This is me fishing for a compliment. I am very insecure. It is sad and pathetic.
I tell my therapist that I am “hyper-aware” (that is the actual word that I use) of all of my flaws and shortcomings. She tells me this is good.
Earlier in the trip, a car with an HRC sticker sped up and passed us. The guy in the passenger seat gestured excitedly and peered into our car.
“So obvious,” I said.
“Yeah, we’re never that obvious,” W said.
“I know. We look but we don’t actually press our faces into the window,” I said.
A little later, we see a third blue and yellow sticker. This one is mounted next to an oval encircling a capital letter L.
“I wonder if it stands for lesbian?” W asks.
W steps on the gas and we are able to see that the L stands for Lewes, Delaware.
We try to catch a glimpse of the mystery driver, but she disappears into the traffic ahead.