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Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883
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I’ll have a double decaf with a little bit of a flirt

Cheryl-anne Millsap The Spokesman-Review

You know, at the end of the day, you’re either hot or you’re not.

It looks like I’m not.

With my usual bad timing, I walked into Starbucks the other day just in front of a young, tall and blonde bombshell. A goddess.

She had a mane of sleek beautiful hair, smooth tanned skin, long legs, and a short skirt and tight T-shirt covering a gorgeous figure.

Let’s just say I wasn’t wearing any of those things.

She moved across the room the way a swan glides over water. I felt like a troll. I was limping a little because I had a blister on my heel. As I walked toward the counter I rifled through my purse searching for my wallet, leaving a trail of grocery store receipts and cat-food coupons. Then, when I finally found the wallet, I lost my grip on my purse and dropped it, spilling the contents: my notebook, a mini-umbrella, the car keys, Post-it notes, the dog’s leash (so that’s where it was) and my cell phone which separated from its battery on impact and skidded in two different directions across the floor.

Not the smoothest entrance I’ve ever made, but, certainly not the worst.

Despite the commotion, the handsome young barista never glanced my way as he leaned over the counter, totally focused on the beautiful young woman, and asked – in a voice dripping with innuendo – what she would like.

She debated aloud whether she should have the passion fruit tea or a high-calorie frozen concoction – with caramel syrup and whipped cream – before she flashed a gorgeous smile and ordered an iced coffee. The barista called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving her face, “One iced coffee for the hot lady.”

Still chasing my belongings as they scattered across the room, I doubted he would have said that to me if I had been on fire.

After she shimmered down to the end of the counter to wait, beautifully, for her iced order, the barista turned to me – the only other person in the place – and asked, “Who was next?”

I was at a disadvantage because I was bent at an awkward angle, like I was doing the limbo, trying to fish my favorite pen, which had also fallen out of my purse, from under the display case with the toe of my shoe. When I stood up to place my order, the young man who had been so attentive to the last customer simply repeated what I wanted to the prep person at the other end of the counter and turned away. I don’t think his eyes were ever on my face, much less glued to it.

Now, I realize there isn’t any way to work a flirty comment – even if he had been so inclined – into an order for a decaf, non-fat, “wet” cappuccino with Splenda. And, to be honest, I would have been startled if he had. After all, I’m old enough (almost) to be his mother.

But, gee, it smarts a little to be dismissed so easily.

I guess at the end of the day - usually a long, long day – what’s important is that the coffee is hot. Not me.

But I wanted to tell the young man, and the goddess, you shouldn’t assume that a woman is all washed up just because she’s rounded the top of the hill.

Sure women my age are a little frazzled, and tired, and we may be carrying some extra weight. If we drop our purse, the evidence of a busy, and decidedly unglamorous, life is exposed.

But we’re still alive and breathing.

OK, maybe I’m not hot anymore. But don’t count me out. I can get there in a flash.

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