At least I don't fart butterflies

Yesterday morning, I pulled up to the speaker at Starbucks, much like I do the other 364 days of the year, minus weekends and holidays.

Matt: Good morning Lyndsay.

Me: Good morning Matt.

Matt: The usual?

Me: Yes please.

Matt: I almost freaked out. I thought it wasn’t you after I said your name. It’s weird because every morning when you pull up, the sun is shining so bright and it is always right in your face. Half the time I can’t tell for sure if it’s you or not. I was worried I was going to say Lyndsay and it totally wasn’t going to be.

Me: Matt, that is just because I bring sunshine everywhere I go.

Matt: Of course you do. You burp rainbows too, right?

At that moment, I had a number of startling revelations. Matt is one of the only people that appreciates my humor and probably gives it back quicker than I can take it. Matt and I also know way too much about each other. He is training for a marathon. He frequents Target as much as I do (I mean did, shit, I’m supposed to be giving up Target, right?). He appreciates my quest to avoid all refined and artificial sweeteners. He and I are on a mission to convince Starbucks to offer Stevia in their stores, or in the very least sneak our own in to this particular store. He buys my coffee in the morning almost as often as I do. Most startling? I realized this morning that I see Matt more times per week than I see my husband. That is pathetic and shocking all in the same breath.

It is a good thing that I am married and Matt is gay, or this would have potential to be really awkward.