This isn't just ice cream

The story behind how we ended up on the patio, hipster watching, eating ice cream, evolved through our errands this evening.

We dropped off a bike for a co-worker, then on the way to getting my mountain bike post BCBR, Cindy suggested we stop by the wand carwash. I said I'd rather go through the machine wash next time we fill up. She said it'd be fun, which I disagreed with, yet I obliged.

And what happens when we pull in? There's two bays open. Each is populated at the front, but back is open. Each has a twenty something scantily clad, washing their respective cars. Cindy asks which one I'm going in. I pull into the first one, where some complete hardbody in tight Lulu shorts, a sports bra, flip flops and oversize sunglasses is rubbing some suds into her Civic with Saskatchewan plates. I'd guess she just made $10k last week serving beer at Cowboys as a bonus to regular yoga/fitness instructor income, but that's just for the sake of argument. I can't even make this stuff up how she's just squatting, bending, and really rubbing the soap into that Civic. Cindy says "you owe me DQ for this". No problem... the wand wash was way better than the machine after all.

Funny.