The Fluster Factor

My face burns at nine thousand degrees and my tongue turns desert-y dry. It’s a moment that hits like bam, busting through my calmness like an alarm clock beside a sleeping baby.

Oh, the fluster factor.

I know it well, always have, even as a grownup.

Take a few weeks ago, for example. Grinning Cute Guy at Costco reaches for a tub-o-purple-grapes at the exact second my fingers touch the lid.

Play it cool.

I smile, casually, like oh-hi and ignore the “oh, whoa” repeating in my mind.

We retract our hands in sync.

“Sorry, go ahead,” he says, all gentleman-y, with a quick head bow.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, sorry,” I say. Shut it. “Thanks.” I nod and smile wider. With my eyes locked with his, I place one hand under the thin plastic tub, pull it toward me and forget that it’s Costco and everything’s heavy and awkwardly shaped. It slips. I lean forward ultra quickly but my other hand doesn’t make it in time. The tub-o-purple-grapes lands sideways on the tile.

“Oops!” I squat, wobbling at the floor, flip it upright, cradle it and stand.

A double-fluster ensues as I return it to the tower of other tubs, forgetting that it actually belongs in my cart. This is exactly when some witty, self-deprecating comment from me could make us laugh into happily ever after. But my brain overheats and I’m unable to break the blank out.

What I do is reach over to the very tub that drew Cute Guy and me together and pluck off a now dusty, yucky purple grape that’s sticking out, wedged between the lid and the tub. It’s filthy! Who wants to buy a grape that fell on the floor? There. Saved the day for some unsuspecting grape eater.

But now I’m holding a dirty grape in my palm. Where to put it? My coat pocket? That’s stealing. The floor? That’s not right. Now I’m just a weirdo with a stolen grape.

Cute Guy half smirks and an eyebrow bends in like what the heck is wrong with this girl. I smile an uncomfortable kind and say, “have a nice day,” pushing my cart away with one gripped hand and one grape-protecting fist.

Back in my little kid days, I flustered nearly daily, thanks to certain boys who made me clam up with just a smile, authority figures like Sister Mary Ann, my grade school principal (who yelled loud enough to rattle the windows and was always biting her tongue to prevent what I assume were not-so-nice curses at us kids) and lots of general Jody little kid weirdness.

I used to think that the fluster factor would just up and evaporate one day, as if passing into grownup land provided a magical element that kept you cucumber cool in all situations.  I thought that having more say in my life, in my world, would prevent fluster-inducing moments altogether and even if those moments happened, I could maintain my smooth grownup composure.

Pfff! The fluster factor is all alive and well, probably always will be. It’s part of who I am and that’s okay.