I order a hot chocolate, and pull out my knitting. I’m working on a baby blanket to give to a friend and colleague who delivered a baby girl last Friday. Its my first exploration into the seemingly mystifying but actually somewhat monotonous world of entrelac knitting.
As I’m working away at the table, I notice the barista is peering over at me from behind the counter. She’s cute, in a multiple piercings and vaguely goth sort of way.
"Are you knitting?" she asks.
"Yes", I respond.
"What is it?" she asks.
"A baby blanket," I explain.
“Is it for your baby?” she asks.
“Nope. Its for a colleague who had a little girl last Friday,” I answer.
"Wow. You're adorable!" she exclaims.
Let me repeat that last bit, for it bears repeating. A lovely young woman (becoming lovelier in my memory) called me adorable. Now I’m about 6 feet 2 inches in height, and tip the scales at 220 lbs. I’ve never been called adorable in my life. But I have to say, I could get used to it. A gorgeous woman called me adorable.
Shortly afterward, I describe the event to Mrs. TSMK (or perhaps that should be Mrs. T"A"SMK). I explain how this amazing, voluptuous and sensual woman, a dead-ringer for a young Sophia Loren, who was obviously working as a barista between modeling jobs or perhaps in preparation for playing a barista in a major motion picture, thought I was adorable.
Mrs. T"A"SMK is unimpressed.