This is where the Smillew goes
#55 — Hey, Hot Mom in the Elementary School Carpool Lane
What kind of yoga pants are you wearing?
My Dear, I’ve noticed you in the elementary carpool lane several dozen times now. At the risk of sounding like a reprobate, I must say that I find you extremely attractive. As I am not one to tell outright fabrications, you know this to be true.
The grimace upon your face and the dark circles beneath your eyes tell me that you are an experienced and dedicated parent who’s nearly at the end of her proverbial rope. You stare into the void that is your phone, hoping for small hits of dopamine in the form of likes and claps from other exhausted moms on your various social media platforms.
But you must not fret, because I am here for you.
You may be thinking, “what the fuck are you looking at, weirdo?”, but I know you’ve seen me here, too. I’ve seen you glancing in my general direction in my mid-sized, company-owned SUV. I normally wear a modestly-colored polo shirt with my employer’s company logo stitched onto the pocket. Though you had sunglasses on and may have been sleeping, I feel confident in assuming you made eyes at me.
My darling, it does not concern me that you wear activewear every day but are infrequently active. You have clearly been active at one point in the last 5 years, for your car has wear marks from the bicycle rack on the back. It is conspicuous that you make every effort to stay fit.
Our attraction is so great I must admit to occasionally leaving the office 5 minutes early so we occupy adjacent spots outside the school. When you pull up in your grey Subaru Outback, my heart wildly fibrillates. If enjoying the appearance of weary soccer moms in beat up Subaru Outbacks with 74k miles is wrong, I prefer not to be correct.
I have been witness to you boldly rolling your window down to talk to the mom in the car behind you, knowing that I will be watching. Don’t let it down too long, my dear, or your Starbucks will get cold. I care for you and the temperature of your chosen caffeinated beverage deeply, for I know it is your life blood.
And even though you pretended to honk your horn at the car in front of you to move up in line, I know you were merely fishing for my visual affections.
When we park beside one another, you are distinct in attempts to get my attention because you are talking loudly on the phone with someone I assume is your husband. Your indignancy is evident in your open-windowed discussion with him about his lack of dinner preparation. You are despondent that he didn’t remember to get the frozen poultry out to thaw before departing for his Tuesday night golf league. How dare he?
That absolute motherfucking wanker.
You deserve someone who not only takes the chicken out of the freezer, but also thaws it in the microwave before you get home. Additionally, a woman like you deserves a delightful, savory marinade for your tender chicken breasts. Perhaps one with soy sauce, dried rosemary, and spicy mustard.
For a special treat, I could throw in an ounce of delectable imitation truffle oil to increase the decadence. You’ve never been shy about planning your meals on the phone, therefore I feel confident in assuming we share a common interest of fine suburban cuisine.
Listen. I know we’re both married and have marginally satisfactory lives, but that doesn’t mean we can’t share a special moment together as we await the emancipation of our respective offspring.
While we wait here idling outside Mt. Pleasant Elementary, why not imagine us together on a remote, equatorial coastline without our daily quandaries such as laundering and residential horticulture?
For we are but islands in the stream. That is what we are.
If residential maintenance turns your proverbial crank, wait until you feast your imagination upon my semi-freshly manicured lawn I trimmed meticulously after fixing the garbage disposal last week. This was, of course, after I washed and folded the sheets, but not the fitted sheet because that stretchy uncle fucker requires an exorcism.
I have all the qualities you desire in a husband but can never get because he is an acute imbecile. Whereas I am a reasonably capable man with a solid dad bod and a Home Depot platinum card.
I fantasize about bringing you to my residence where I could make you a hot cup of Ceremonial Matcha and load the dishwasher without you yelling at me for doing it wrong.
In hopes to find a modicum of appreciation, I will happily wash your sport bras on the gentle cycle and hang them on the drying rack in an orderly manner. You will be so grateful that you will help me untie my shoes because my knees are aching from my old chess injury.
Well, my love, the children are coming out of the school now, and it is time for us to say our goodbyes. I see you take notice as my fuel-efficient hybrid roars to life, and I wonder if you’ll think of me when your husband of suffocates you in a Dutch oven later. Because I know I will be thinking of you when I look up at the stars during my lonely promenade to take out the garbage.
Until tomorrow, my darling.
