Dirt McGurt!

One afternoon in Burlington, Vermont, back when I pedaled insurance for my meager living, I pulled over convinced I was getting a migraine. I pulled over into a crowded parking lot that housed the parked cars of, among others, Starbucks patrons.

I rescheduled all of my day's appointments then sat in my car, a little hazy and tired. I was sort-of slumped down in my seat, minding my own business, trying to decide whether I was getting better or worse, when I heard a rustling sound.

I looked in my rear-view mirror to find a woman standing at my rear windshield, tracing her fingers into the film of dirt that had been left on my vehicle, compliments of Vermont's many dirt roads. She finished and walked around the side of my car and began to climb into the SUV parked directly next to me. Half-shocked but thoroughly entertained, I surveyed her work, then her appearance: 20 to 25 years old in fancy yoga-ish-Saturday Starbucks-run getup. 

As she put on her seat belt, I waited patiently and deliciously for her to realize her victim was actually in this filthy car, arms shrugged up in the air. As her shocked and embarrassed face met mine, my almost-concerned and accusatory expression asked, "What are you? A twelve year old boy?"