I have a certain aversion toward packing a lunch so instead I choose to eat out on most days. Invariably this has lead to a well-worn routine: there is Bob Evan's day, Donato's day, two floaters (they're crazy, you never know where I might eat!), and mall foodcourt day. Say what you will, but there is comfort in routine. Besides, as indecisive as my lunch partner and I are, this saves a lot of time that would normally be spent bouncing the question, "I dunno, where do you wanna go?" back and forth.

Lunch at the foodcourt is a treasure trove of stories. More so than anywhere else, it provides a golden opportunity to people watch. Young and old, male and female, strikingly attractive and "dear God it's walking upright!", they all converge at the crossroads of humanity and indoor fast food dining.

Recently I saw an interesting pair as I stood waiting for my tasty, tasty double-decker tacos. In line I caught a glimpse of an attractive young woman. More correctly I should probably say "girl" as closer inspection revealed that she was likely in her mid teens (15 or 16, perhaps). She had blossomed early, a fact that was, clearly, quite evident. And yes, I feel guilty for even noticing her, and yes she's someones daughter, but it's a guy thing we can't help but look. Certain attractive forms just draw us men in. We're like moths to a flame, cats with string, or Bruce Vilanch to an all you can eat buffet.

To complicate matters, she was brandishing an exposed midriff. I should say, however, that she didn't seem to be overly flaunting it. During the short period of time in which I took all this in (seriously, it was only a minute or so, I wasn't acting that lasciviously) she actually seemed a bit self-conscious or uncomfortable. I thought for a moment about what I would do if she were my daughter and how I'd probably never let her out the door with anything less than a parka and full snow suit on. She'd be grounded until she was thirty just to be on the safe side. Then I saw her mother (I assume), and all became clear.

The daughter's premature hotness ("Hillary Duff is / not quite old enough") was in stark contrast to her mother's overt skankiness. She was tall and thin, though it didn't strike me as a healthy thin. Her skin was sun-baked and leathery. Her hair was ultra short, dyed an unnatural blond, and unfitting for a woman of her age (or maybe any age). Her body was marked with a variety of tattoos, none of which were particularly well done and all were in serious need of re-inking. And, surprise, surprise, she too sported a bare midriff as well as a pair of cut-off jeans, exposing considerably more skin (unfortunately) than her child. Like mother, like daughter, I guess. Maybe this explains why the daughter seemed uneasy. No teen wants to go to the mall with their folks, particularly if their parent is clothed in an outfit straight from Motorcycle Hoes Monthly.

My food was ready and so I left this unusual mother-daughter bonding trip to sit down and enjoy my food. Perhaps I'm callous or jaded but I couldn't help but think, "That poor girl is going to be knocked-up by her senior year." Well, at least the kid will get to spent time with Grandma Too Old For Those Clothes and an ever revolving cast of Grandpas.

Tags: Humor, Life