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I knew I’d let myself go, but I never realized how far until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the self-checkout camera at Dollar General.

It shouldn’t come as too much of a shock, considering I’m a school bus driver with four kids and a van with a back door that only shuts downhill.

But the quality of this camera can’t be all that good, right?

Regardless, my looks are the least of my worries. I’m too busy keeping up with kids, trying to make ends meet, and doing all I can to avoid the Big D.

Not divorce, that happened years ago.

Diabetes. Which my doctor said will happen if I don’t somehow make time to
whip my butt into better shape.

As luck would have it, I run into a hot slightly older man who offers me a job at his new gym. A handsome stranger wants to pay me money and benefits while offering me health and fitness advice . . .

Either I’m being Punk’d or maybe there is such a thing as fairytale endings for hot mess single mamas.

Morgan 

I knew I’d let myself go, but I never realized how far until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the self-checkout camera at Dollar General.

Hair in a messy topknot, no makeup, Crocs, and a slouchy T-shirt hung over my leggings. Not even cute leggings. Just an old stretchy pair I slept in the night before.

If that’s not enough, this stupid thing isn’t scanning.

I run the poster board over the scanning square again, then resort to pulling out
the scanning wand. Finally, it adds to my tab. Supplies for Sophia’s volcano presentation, baby wipes, and my Cheetos for the bus. Aw, the bus. I grab a packet of headache powder by the counter and scan that too.

Then I dig in my bottomless pit of a purse and find my card. I try and tap it.
Doesn’t work. So I stick it in the slot. Doesn’t work. I resort to old-school swiping.

“Card Declined” blinks in bright red words across the screen.

I blow a loose hair out of my eye and try again. The words blink faster, as if saying, “Hey, dummy. Read me.”

I dig deeper in my purse for some cash. As I uncrumple ones and fives and rummage for loose change, I hear a groan behind me.

Sweat beads behind my ears. More due to the pressure of this situation and less
because of the ninety-degree yellow tin box awaiting me outside.

People start to leave the line and go to the counter with a real register. One where an actual human is supposed to work. Except instead of a person, it’s a plastic pig with a sign duct-taped on its back.

“SQUEEZE FOR HELP.”

An older man I somewhat recognize from the early service at church squeezes the pig. It lets out an annoying noise you’d expect from a rubber chicken rather than a pig.

Cassidy comes from the nail polish aisle, straightening her name tag. She spends most of her time here browsing for herself or trying out broken merchandise.

Without a greeting of any sort, she begins scanning the man’s Hormel chili cans.

Now that the other customers have hope, it takes a little pressure off me. I focus my efforts on trying to straighten the five in my hand.

“Here,” a deep voice says behind me.

I stare at a man’s hand holding a crisp five. My ears go from sweaty to soggy as I follow the hand to very fit forearms, followed by perfectly formed biceps.
They belong to a man I had one conversation with a few months prior. I swallow and stare at his brown eyes.

“Morgan?”

“Yeah?” I instinctively smooth back my hair, as if that will help.

Embarrassingly, I can’t remember his name. I’ve referred to him as Fit Older Guy from the Ballpark. Not that I’ve referred to him outside of my head, but that’s the name I mentally gave him.

“Are you going to take it?”

“Hmm?” I blink to clear my mind’s rambling.

“The five. And I have a twenty if you need more,” he offers.

I laugh nervously and wave my hands in front of me. “No, I can’t.”

“Sure
you can. If it makes you feel better, I’ll exchange my flat five for your
crumpled one.”

I
laugh a little crazier. Then I take the five and shove my wadded cash in his
hand. This makes him laugh. I get lost in his eyes and the lines that frame his
face when he smiles.

“Ahem.”
Someone clears their throat loudly behind us.

I
peek around Fit Older Guy from the Ballpark and see Paul holding a package full
of to-go plates. Well that explains a lot.

“Thanks,”
I say quickly to Fit Older Guy. Then I turn around and shove his flat five in
the machine. I’m low a few dollars and start to sweat again.

Just
great . . .

Fit
Older Guy’s hand reaches beside me with a few crisp ones. I take them and
ignore the shakiness of my hand brushing his. They slide in like snot off a
sick kid.

Seriously,
where does he get all this perfect money?

Coins
jingle as they fall into the change bin. I take them out and hand them to the
mystery man. He smiles and nods. I arm up my bags and give him an awkward grin.

Then
I get the heck out of DG before Paul loses all patience with me.

Thanks
to my malfunctions, I’m now pushing it to get in line at pickup. I climb into
my bus and put my blinker on. If only buses were like ambulances. Yes, we can
put out a sign that makes others stop, but then I’m stopped as well.

By
the time I make it to the first school, I’m ripping open my headache relief and
sprinkling it onto my tongue. I follow it with a huge gulp of lukewarm Mountain
Dew to wash it down.

I
know I should drink water, but I swear I’m allergic to it.

The
school officer frowns at me when I pull in line late. I ignore his reaction and
make a note to report him to the sheriff if he says anything to me.

I
flip the fan toward my face and take another sip of my drink. It’s hotter than
a stolen tamale in this bus. I’d love to wear shorts, but my legs would stick
to the seats.

And
I need to drop about twenty pounds and let my limbs see some sunlight first.

I
open the door and pray my headache aid kicks in as the children pile on. Mrs.
Trudie stares at me from the parking lot. Aside from the hairnet, she’s about
as disheveled as me.

“Sorry
I was late.”

She
smiles sweetly. I wish I could be as mellow as her. She never complains about
riding my bus and never complained when I snuck an extra yeast roll in high
school.

I
can’t decide what surprises me more. That she’s still working in the lunchroom,
that she never got her driver’s license, or that she’s remained calm for what
seems like a hundred years.

Mrs.
Trudie holds on to the handrail and climbs up the steps. She sits in the front
row opposite me and removes her hairnet. Her gray swirls remain in a perfectly
formed circle around her head.

Maybe
I should try a hairnet. 

By
the time I make it to the elementary school, my face is cooled down.

Just in time for a kid to climb the steps and plop a pair of sweaty socks in my lap. My gag reflex is in full effect. I can’t decide if it’s a good or bad thing
that this is my kid.

Only Andrew.

He’s the youngest of four and on the edge of feral despite my best efforts to make him wear clothes and eat with utensils.

Once we’re on the road, I check the kids in my rearview mirror. Andrew makes eye contact with me and offers his signature smirk. I shake my head.

If it weren’t for relatives and friends, he really would be a hot mess. Having a dad in his life would make a big difference I’m sure, but that would require me having another husband. Lord knows my ex isn’t interested in raising anyone—including himself.

A kid behind me makes a farting sound with his armpit and others laugh. I whistle loudly and give them the stink eye when they see me.

They settle down somewhat, and I pop open my bag of Cheetos. My tongue comes in contact with the dusty cheese, bringing on a shot of dopamine. I savor the crunchiness through all my last stops until nobody is left on the bus except for my two youngest kids. The others are at their sports practices, and my oldest will drive them home.

That gives me approximately two hours to juggle only two kids, plus the pets, and figure out what to cook for dinner.

Oh, and make a volcano.