The co-worker watching out the upstairs window to see our newest employee a couple of weeks ago (he who made the statement in this post’s title), is a heavily tattooed, early balding heavy-set man with a camper truck who sometimes wears a biker’s under-helmet cap and who co-owns a resale shop he’s trying to keep alive.
Another of us is about 8 minutes old, a lovely from head to toe brunette, and a young mom of two with a Honda that now has all 4 hubcaps. I checked last night. I plan to rejoice with her over that. AND the fact that the windows all roll up, now.
Another of us is approximately 400 years old in dog years and no one, not ONE person was shocked to hear that she became a great-Grandma recently; also not tattooed or pierced, but is in no definable kind of shape outwardly except wimpy. If the supplies dolly snaps forward, so does she. She could beat you at arm-wrestling, though. If you were very drunk. Or tied up or something. She drives a nun car. I’m sorry, Sentra — it is what it is, and it isn’t what it isn’t.
So, I had to wonder mightily how this gorgeous young French-braided blond stepping from a maroon SUV, all tatted from shoulders on down and covered in breath-constricting workout clothes (breath-constricting for men, that is — she herself is most comfortable in them, and goes from work to working out til 11 pm, sometimes) and sporting a diamond stud in her nose, appeared to be “one of us.”