We’re all familiar with the disproportionately hot girlfriend phenomenon. It’s pervasive enough that the guy who started Hot Chicks with Douchebags has made a career out of it. Usually there’s an explanation for it. Often, though, there’s not.
When Steve was in high school, he worked at a nursery that had among its best patrons a very attractive woman. She usually came in alone, but one time came in with her husband. The alarm bells went off—how did he end up with her? The next time she came in—alone—one of Steve’s colleagues said to her “your husband’s rich, isn’t he.”
She responded without hesitation: “Loaded.”
Sometimes, though, the question isn’t so easy to answer.
I’ve recently reneged on my commitment not to buy diet coke from the 7-eleven two blocks from my office. It’s on the way to the Real Tacos cart on Second South and State, and the siren song of three carne asada tacos—piled high with cabbage and pickled jalapenos and carrots—along with a 44 ounce diet coke, all for less than four dollars and all without getting in my car, is enough to make me almost forget about the pizza incident. It also helps that the pizza eater lady hasn’t been there the last couple times.
Revisiting that 7-eleven of course affords opportunities to watch the clientele, which brings us back to the subject of today’s post. While I was there, I saw a young lady who was attractive, if a bit trashy, and appeared to be in her early 20’s. The guy she was with, though, made me wonder if he was her dad, her pimp, or her long time child molester with whom she’d developed Stockholm syndrome.
This dude had been ridden hard and put away wet for years. He had that spare look of a guy who was accustomed to manual labor but didn’t eat properly. Kind of like an ex-professional wrestler who had swapped steroids for meth and lost a lot of his bulk but not the angry and ring-worn facade.
I couldn’t figure out how they ended up together. Sure, she already looked a little worn for her age, but that’s nothing new in that neighborhood. And her wear and tear was nothing compared to his. The difference could have only been ten years, but he looked to be at least twice her age.
Then it hit me—maybe he looked like a meth user because he was. Maybe she looked a little worn for her age for the same reason. Maybe he’s the dealer and a few months ago she was a college student who ran out of cash to fuel a newly acquired habit.
I started out writing this post intending for it to be funny. Turns out it’s just sad, especially if what I’ve supposed is correct. At this point I don’t even know what else to say, so I won’t.