L.A. Affairs: Humiliation on aisle 4 at Erewhon: Loathing it but owning it

I’m a single working mom. I do not go out in sweatpants. Hair needs washing? OK. But no sweatpants, ever.

I help with morning drop-off at my daughter’s school and I see moms in sweatpants, and I tell myself that’s where I draw the line. Plus, I am also the kind of person who can’t get away with anything, even once. Condom break, illegal left turn — the universe shows me no leniency.

So I should have known.

It was a Friday morning, and the morning breakfast/lunch/snack/shoes/homework rush was over. My daughter left for school with the carpool, and I was off work and feeling virtuous after a morning run. A run in the same sweatpants and sweatshirt in which I slept.

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Intent on being super-productive before I went to help with a school lunch, I broke the no-sweatpants rule and shot off to the Goodwill on Beverly Boulevard. I snagged the perfect costume for my daughter’s role as Tiny Tim with the California Shakespeare Ensemble, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. On the way home, I decided to swing by Erewhon Natural Foods Market in the Fairfax district to pick up kombucha and grass-fed milk.

Now, for many of you, the alarm just sounded in your head. This is like the moment in a horror film when the babysitter invites her boyfriend over or the football player steps out the front door to look for the missing friend. Don’t do it! The audience screams. This is foolishness!

When friends visit Los Angeles and want to see a celebrity, I suggest Erewhon. Heck, I’ve seen Sidney Poitier there. The customers are generally fit, pretty people. No one should go to Erewhon without a facial and a manicure.

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So there I was, green basket in hand, walking past the sheep’s milk cheeses. I spotted a tall, handsome guy with a vaguely Texas or Oklahoma vibe looking at the kombucha and sauerkraut section. I slowed down a step. Even from a distance, he looked familiar. He turned and looked at me.

“Jeff?”

“Hey, darlin’! Oh, my God!” He gave me a big hug and we stood there and caught up. I hadn’t seen him since the baby and since he started working on a soap.

Let me back up a little.

Jeff was in acting class with me, and we had a lot in common: He drove a truck; I drove a truck. And he was very talented and undeniably sexy. Gets the bad boy sexy parts. Bad, like, ex-con but really hot bad. We flirted, but nothing ever came of it.

I remember he even called one night fairly late to see if I wanted to come over and have some beers and “hang out.” I declined.

But he was a loose end — an unfulfilled daydream and still really hot. The kombuchas were sweating.

We shared another hug and caught up some more. It would be fun to get together, so great to see you, blah, blah.

Then he sneezed. A couple of times.

“Are you allergic to me?” I asked.

“I don’t think so!” He laughed. And sneezed again.

One more hug, and we parted. I headed for the long checkout line snaking through the fair trade chocolate section. I could hear him, still sneezing. Poor guy!

And then something clicked. The cat had slept on my shoulder, the shoulder where Jeff had just placed his head in a truly great hug. And I remembered one of the reasons I declined his booty call that night — no future. He was allergic to cats. And like a good animal-rescue-minded Angeleno, I had vowed to never unload pets for a guy.

I wondered if I should tell him why he was sneezing. But I didn’t. Too mortifying.

An hour later, I was working with another mom to set up the hot lunches at school. She was new, airy and sweet — and slightly annoying with her slowness and polite chatter. But I wanted to be less judgmental and connect with her, so I told her my humiliating sweatpants story from that morning. It worked. We shared a laugh.

“That’s really funny,” she said. “I may steal that story. I may use that for my blog on women in their 40s.”

I just looked at her. Really?

First of all, did I say I was in my 40s? I didn’t recall that comment escaping my lips. Second of all, only in L.A. can you not share a humiliating story without it ending up in someone’s script or blog or comedy routine.

That’s my humiliation! I will cherish or monetize it as I see fit, and I shouldn’t have to register it at the Writers Guild to share it with you over some baby carrots. It’s mine.

Elliott is an actress, a mom and (halfway to) a cat lady.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the current dating scene in and around Los Angeles. If you have comments or a true story to tell, email us at home@latimes.com. We pay $300 a column.