context clues: they count

Today, I stop for gas. As I marinate in the pure amount of life being sucked from our unborn children's college funds by way of $4.09/gallon, a large and beefy but smiley man approaches. He asks if I'm in the Navy.

Though the true answer is nothing if not black and white, the hamster wheel residing in my brain begins to spin its please-I-beg-you-to-let-me-overcomplicate-this-question's wheels.

My mouth takes the shape of a donut hole. Mr. Beefy is obviously a spy -- or maybe a psychic. But probably a spy. I say I'm not in the Navy but my husband is, because when dealing with spies it's best to tell the truth.

"Is he an officer?" asks the beefy man.

Me: "Yeah?"

"I noticed the blue decal," he says, gesturing to the Navy registration sticker on my windshield. Blue? Hamster wheel spins faster.

I'd never noticed the blue component of my decal before; in fact, I usually forget that my car sports anything official whatsoever except this one time I tried to meet the ship after infinity months at sea and had to sneak on base due to said sticker's expiration.

I wonder if having a current Navy sticker with blue on it speaks a secret language or means awesome superpower things I don't even know about?

He tells me he's retired Marines. Hamster wheel resumes spinning but in opposite direction. I react as though this is the most fortuitous encounter of my life, blatantly disregarding that 100,000 other military personnel live here. Shoot obligatory how-much-longer-does-he-have-left breeze. Ret. Col. Beefy asks: "Is he out right now?"

"Out? Uhh, no, we drove separately and I needed gas. He's on his way home!"

Fail.