like tater tots

So yesterday I'm standing at the bus stop. I'm there later than usual because I stayed at work to make up for the time I spent sewing the coffee cozy in the morning. I'm standing there and my cell phone beeps, indicating I've got a text message. Other than from my sister, who loves to forward chain messages and notes about how Jesus loves me in spite of myself, I don't get many texts, so I start to read with excitement and skepticism. This is what the message says:

Love you lots like tater tots, and even more than vodka shots. I'm your FRIEND till the end! Happy Valentine's Day.

It's from a number I don't recognize, one that belongs to none of the people in my phone book. I puzzle over it, then I read it again.

And again.

And again.

I begin to smile.

And I read it again.

It starts to make me happy, puts pep in my step. The bus arrives. I bounce aboard, tinkle my fare, find a seat, and read it again.

I get through it about seven more times before I reach my stop. When I'm not reading it, I'm reciting it.

I consider calling the number and finding out who the sender is. I don't get far with this, because -- I realize almost immediately -- I don't want to know.

Maybe it's someone I know but am lukewarm about -- I don't want to know.
Maybe it's someone I know, but I already know s/he loves me lots like tater tots -- I don't want to know.
Maybe someone sent the message by mistake -- Egads! I don't want to know.

It's comforting to imagine that there's someone out there, someone who maybe sees me in passing, on a bad day -- frizzy hair, cripple walk, no makeup and all -- who thinks I'm the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas, butter to the toast of the world. Someone who feels this way so strongly that s/he took the time to put it in verse and send it to only me.

That feels lovely, like lemon drops.