Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- Coffee Time

I'm not much into the club scene -- and have nobody to go with if I were -- and the quiet atmosphere of a good coffeehouse and a book relaxes me and allows me to decompress as few experiences can.  So simply sitting as myself, as Liz, in a coffeehouse and chilling had become something of a lodestone in my journey of, well, out-and-about-ness.  I was determined to do it on one of my weekly trips to my Birmingham therapist.  As I said in a previous post, I found what I thought was the perfect place: Forest Perk Coffee in the South Side area of Birmingham, and so last Tuesday, I was determined to go for it.

Once again, I was able to get ready at home, though I was determined not to take as long as last time.  In this I succeeded:  beginning at about 8:15 am, I applied my makeup (Maybelline mineral foundation, a sweep of blush, and a couple of coats of lippy) and my new auburn wig.  I chose -- after much less hesitation than last week -- a nice blue top over a white lace-trimmed cami, denim capris, and 10-dollar black flats from J.C. Penney.  Finally, I threw on a cardigan -- its finally gotten cooler here in Alabam -- and some jewelry, and I was out the door shortly before nine.  Not bad, not bad at all.

Unfortunately, advanced planning is not my forté, and I'd neglected to get cash before hand, so 15 precious minutes were wasted getting to the closest branch of my bank.  Hey, I'm not comfortable enough to buy something with my (male) debit card ... what if he asked for my license?  How humiliating would that be?

Anyway.  I pulled into the parking lot of Forest Perk at about twenty past ten and courageously ... dithered.  Do you know about dithering?  If you're a t-girl who has ventured at all, it is likely that you do.  Oh, I'm a lot better than I used to be about it, but still: this was going into uncharted territory, with face-to-face interaction and -- so my imagination told me -- a high chance of ridicule.  So, I dithered.  I transferred my necessaries -- keys, lipstick, powder, license, cash -- from my everyday Baggalini into a purse I'd brought, but whoops!  My 2nd generation Kindle wouldn't fit.  So, everything back into the bag, which works just fine as a purse, and last and very carefully, the keys: it is a particular fear of mine to be locked out of my car and having to call a locksmith, and he comes along -- his name is Billy Earl -- and after laughing uproariously, beats the living sh*t out of me.

So I put the keys very deliberately in my bag, locked the car, turned and saw that there was a man and woman sitting outside the coffee house chatting and I just knew they were going to turn as one and start laughing at me, then follow me into the coffee house pointing and laughing.  So, I dithered some more ... looking in my bag for some imaginary item, opening the car door and looking on the front seat for same imaginary item, the usual ... but finally I slapped myself mentally and started across the lot, toward the door, past my soon-to-be tormentors and ... nothing happened.  Not a thing. They barely even glanced up.

Nobody did anything, as a matter of fact.  I waltzed up to the counter, the man behind it asked me what I wanted, I told him a large drip coffee.  He asked if I wanted room for cream, I told him no, and he handed me the cup.  I took it to a table, went to the ladies room, then settled into the comfy armchair to read and sip my coffee.  Nobody looked at me funny, nobody giggled then turned quickly away, nobody said "boo."

After too short a time -- I had banked and dithered far too long -- I walked out past the other patrons, who still didn't bat an eye, back across the parking lot, and reached into my purse for my keys.  They weren't in the pocket I remember putting them in.  I reached the car and began to rummage in the other pockets.  Nothing.  I placed my coffee on the roof of the car, the bag on the trunk, and went through it in earnest.  No keys.

I had to face the fact that I had lost my keys.  My worst fear had come true.

To be continued . . .