There were also two college-age daughters riding to work with their moms. Coincidentally, they are both softball players. Now I don't know what the softball gals look like where you live, but all the ones I've ever met are stout and stocky and look like they could really fuck you up in a dark alley.
The two this morning were no exception.
I was briefly mesmerized by speed and efficiency with which one of them was able to type and send a text message. While my agile fingers can fly over a keyboard at a brisk clip, I morph into an arthritic hunt-and-peck typer with mild dyslexia when attempting to send a text message.
All of this morning's activity on the van sent me searching through my peppy music folder rather than for my usual maudlin sad-bastard tunes. I was in a state of pure pop induced bliss listening to The Cure's Boy's Don't Cry. While I harbor no American Idol-like fantasies (I have proudly never watched a single episode) and would not attempt to carry a note in the shower or in a bucket, if there was ever a song to make me squeeze my eyes shut, throw back my head, and indulge my inner chanteuse, this would be it.