Living in a rural community has a laundry list of pros and cons. On the pro side, it’s a three-minute drive to the post office, and I have never had to wait in line for more than five minutes, and that was at Christmas. When you’re out on the road, everyone waves. I love that. On the con side, everyone knows you. Or your husband.
In Hubster’s job, he deals with a lot of people in a two-county area. Square-mile-wise that’s about 13,500. That’s a lot of territory and a lot of people. We literally cannot go anywhere that he doesn’t run across someone he knows. We could be at the end of a 30-mile-long dirt road, on a mountain top on the other side of the Continental Divide, and someone would come along that he knows. That’s not an entirely bad thing, especially if you are stuck in the mud on said mountain top with no cell service, but it does present me with a few challenges.
On occasion, Hubster will have to make a work run out to the wild west on a Saturday or Sunday, and we will take our personal car so I can go with him. Once in a while, we will run across a community flea market or rummage sale and, since he is just as enthused about prowling around in miscellaneous junk as I am, we will stop. And it never fails. Immediately, several people will recognize him and come over to shake his hand, give him a hug, and visit. Ugh.
Now, please don’t get wrong. I am not anti-social, and I love a good gab-fest. But this particular situation is one that makes me grit my teeth. Why, you ask? Because then I feel obligated. Obligated to look at whatever they’re selling, whether I’m interested or not, obligated to make the appropriate clucking noises and nod my head while they’re telling me all about it, and obligated to buy something from them WITHOUT haggling. Aaaaaawkward.
Personally, I could take a few hits to my reputation and not sweat it much, but any perceived bad behavior on my part would reflect badly on the Hubster, and that would just be bad. And who needs more bad mojo, right?
At the last community flea market we happened upon, (I kid you not, at a place on the other side of the Continental Divide called “Top of the World”) there were only two ladies there selling stuff. Hubster knew them both. Yep. I bought stuff from both of them. I actually walked away from the first one, because she didn’t have anything I was all that wild about. But, wouldn’t you know it? She chased me down and offered me a killer deal. At that point, my Southern Belle upbringing kicked in, and I couldn’t say no. It would have been too rude. *sigh*
So, from now on, I’m going to hang my head out the window and yell, “Do you know my husband?!” before I even get out of the car.
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