I'm not that kind of girl.

I made three pillows today. I drank some coffee and cooked a dish that took all day on the stove top. I spent the day talking to my dog, took a walk in the mid-day sun, waved to neighbors as I went.

I did some laundry and read a true crime book.

Drank some tea.

Watched my murder mystery shows.

Talked to my turtle.

Googled stuff.

My name is Bry Hoeg, and I'm old.

Lately, I've been wondering if I occupy my time sewing, reading, walking, and cooking because I like doing these things or if I do these things because I'm old and this is what old people do.

The chicken or the egg question for spinsters.

I just noticed that I wrote "33 going on 63" on that graphic but I am in fact only 32.

Whoopsie Daisy.

Sometimes things happen to me that shouldn't happen to old ladies.

Like when men stop to talk to me because they think I'm a prostitute.

On Sunday morning, I was waiting at the bus stop at 7am. The bus stop is right in front of a "massage parlor."

I was innocently waiting for my bus, cruising Reddit on my cell phone, and trying not to freeze to death.

The bus stop, in addition to being in front of a house of ill repute, is also next to a small strip of businesses. There is the Vietnamese sandwich shop, the Egyptian deli, and a place where you can pay your bills for a small handling fee.  It is a busy area and there are often cars slowing to turn into the parking lot.

So I didn't think nothing of a car slowing down and then turning into the lot. Even though it is only 7am and nothing is open.

A man shuffles over to the bus stop and leans against the pillar near where I'm sitting. I look up, see him, go back to reading my cell phone. I say nothing.

(Apparently this is how prostitutes convey they are open for business. I had no idea it was that easy).

"You working?" he asks.

"I'm going downtown for work, yes." I say. I look at him when I respond, but go back to reading my phone.

I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm also extremely tired and learned a long time ago to never interact with people at the bus stop. It never ends well.

"No. You working right now?"

I look up at him, this balding man, wearing sweatpants and Nike runners. I squint up at him as my foggy brain realizes he is asking if I'm working...the corner.

"Ewwww. No."

These words come out of my mouth before I think better of it.

"So you're not working?"

"Uh. No."

He shuffles back to his car, no more words spoken.

I watched his Honda Civic pull away and briefly contemplated heading home just in case he came back. But then I looked to my left and saw the #9 headed down the street.

I got on the bus and went downtown, to my job, where the only wares I sell are books.