[ WP ] A 40 year old , recently divorced woman from the suburbs becomes a cat burglar . : )

It all came flooding back when I put my first leg in the suit. 
 
 I got into the business at 17. Just a kid, pretty as hell, but not aware enough of it to be as on my guard as I should've been. Not about careers, or romantic prospects, or anything else in your life that being unreasonably pretty could affect. Which is just about anything. 
 
 So, naturally, I got recruited by some shady people to do shady things, because I was nimble and I learned quickly, but also because I was pretty enough to get out of tough situations with a well-timed wink and a giggle. 
 
 And, naturally, at 20, I got pregnant by my mentor in the business. And my 21, it was apparent that his concern for me and our son only extended as far as it impacted my ability to make him money. So, by 22, I left. Worked independently for a couple years, leaving my son in the care of a rotating cast of sweet undocumented nannies who I could pay in cash, and who sure as shit would n't mention anything suspicious about their client's household to law enforcement. Easy enough. 
 
 Then, at 26, I met Danny. Sweet, angelic Danny, who was willing to be a father to my son and support us both and not ask too many questions about my past. Perfect. Because of that, I let a lot of things slide. More than I should've. But, after nearly fifteen years, they had piled too high. 
 
 I'd gotten a prenup, not because I had a lot of assets, but because I obviously did n't want them examined too closely. I'd framed it to Danny as a matter of principle: he was going to be supporting me and another man's son, and that was inhumanly gracious of him, and I did n't want to live off that generosity longer than he was willing to extend it. He'd eaten that up and adored me. 
 
 But then it was done, and I needed a job, and I had no presentable work history, so legitimate work was a no-go, not if I wanted enough to earn enough to ensure that my son finished college. 
 
 So I put one pedicured foot into the black spandex of the suit, then the other, and pulled it up over my thighs and -- 
 
 *rrk* 
 
 The material screeched and strained at my hips. Well, shit, I'd been a little hasty with this plan. I paused, for the first time since I'd decided to return to my old business, to consider certain realities of the situation. 
 
 The suit was n't going on, that was pretty clear. No big deal, it was mostly a psychological edge anyway. Any snag-proof, comfortable dark clothes would do. The bigger problem, I mused, examining my middle-aged figure in the mirror, was basement windows, skylights, vents, my old entry staples. Many of those were probably off the table. 
 
 So I decided to start a little simpler, ease back into it, learn my current limits. Hold off on museum pieces and documents in high-powered, high-security law firms. Home invasions were simple and laughably easy. The next mid-morning found me casing a nice suburban neighborhood, much like my own, but a good distance away, obviously. I wore a grey-streaked wig, and an old sweatshirt from the state PTA, just to look a *bit* dowdier and more unassuming than I did already. 
 
 One nice home, set back a safe distance from the street, had no cars in the garage, and a Chinese takeout menu on the doorknob. No one home. Perfect. I strode purposely over and circled the house, looking for unlocked windows. None. As I came around the far corner of the house, I ran smack into a cop. 
 
 *Fuck! * 
 
 `` Howdy, ma'am. You looking for something?'' 
 
 I'd had better, calmer cover stories, but I was out of practice, dammit. `` Oh I, uh, I'm such a moron. I left my house keys on my desk at work when I came home to turn the stove off. I was trying to break into my own house, imagine that!'' 
 
 `` No problem, miss, I can get that for you.'' And he walked right up to the front door, rummaged on his belt for a skeleton key, and unlocked it. 
 
 *Okay. Get ready. * He was going to walk in with me, notice my absence from any family photos, and detain me right there. Unless I simply strode briskly through the house while he was still pondering it, out the back door, broke into a sprint, and vaulted so many backyard fences that he would never catch up. That, I still had the chops for. 
 
 But he did n't. The door swung open, and he stood back on the porch and told me to have a good day. *Buh? * 
 
 Minutes later, stuffing my pockets with jewelry in the master bedroom, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. The sensible greying bob, the crow's feet, and that goddamn PTA sweatshirt. *Soccer mom. Nice lady. * 
 
 And the epiphany clicked, and I never even cased another house. I climbed through windows, I hot-wired cars, all in broad daylight. No one ever stopped me except to offer help. Nice white lady. Might as well be a toddler. 
 
 An old contact helped me pass off the earnings as income doing freelance alterations. I've never *touched* a sewing machine, but there you go. My son's financial aid got a hefty upward adjustment after the divorced was finalized, and at the end of six months, I'd moved out of my crappy divorce-interim apartment and into a free-and-clear owned condo with a seaside view. That PTA sweatshirt had made me more money than my catsuit ever did. 
 
 
 

