If you were to ever run in to me on the street you would probably find me in jeans and a sweatshirt, Ked’s tennis shoes in the winter and flip-flops in the summer, and little-to-no make-up. I have contacts but I don’t wear them. I have a lazy eye and I’m really self-conscious about it. (My eye generally only acts up if I am sick, overly-tired or drunk but since I am 1 of the 3 about 82% of the time, I just keep the specs on. It’s just safer that way.) I am a just casual girl, that is my comfort zone. When I try hard enough I can clean-up alright. I have been called pretty a time or two, I have also heard the words cute and adorable bantered about, but when you see me the word “SEXY” will probably not be in the forefront of your mind. I don’t say this so that you’ll say, “Aaaahhhh sure you’re sexy.” I say this because I’ve tried SEXY and it just don’t work for me. Sexy should fit fine, I’ve had boobs and hips since the second grade and I learned the sexy walk from Pinky Tuskedaro – Fonzie’s one true love (I used to knot my shirt up in the front and practice switching my hips from side to side while snapping my fingers, Pinky style – Well, until my sister caught me and made fun of me mercilessly for several years after.) But sadly I just can’t get SEXY right.
Not too long after my divorce, my friend Felicia decided to take me out for the evening. We got all dressed up and went to a jazz club on the top floor of a local hotel. I wore some sexy heels with my all black ensemble and showed just a bit too much cleavage. I was feeling fine. We listened to the music for awhile (actually we acted like we were listening to the music, we were really just scoping the place for hot guys and faking conversation) and when the band took a break, Felicia went to the bar and I slipped into the restroom. The bathroom had fantastic mirrors, as I walked in I got a good look at myself. I look more than a little hot. My hair was fabulous, my make-up was great, and I had tightened the straps on my bra as far as they could go before I left the house, so the girls were sittin’ pretty. After making sure I was alone, I practiced laughing and talking so I could assess my best angles. I was “on”, this was my night. I saw How Stella Got Her Groove Back; I knew that men find women with a few extra miles on them sexier. We are more confident, more self-sufficient. We are not tongue kissing our best-friends for the Girls Gone Wild cameras, we have class and dignity. So, when someone came in I quickly popped into the stall did my business, washed my hands and quickly went back into the club armed with the poise and assurance that comes with maturity. (Oh, you poor, poor, stupid, young girls – you do not have a chance against me). I strutted across the floor and caught the eye of the most gorgeous, chocolate man. He looked like Omar Epps and Shemar Moore combined. I did the half smile and kept walking. (Yeah, Pinky was with me that night) I took a seat next to my friend, pretended to be interested in whatever she was talking about and sipped my drink, pretending he wasn’t still looking at me. My heart nearly stopped when he got up and walked towards our table, eyes locked with mine (hopefully both of them – I don’t think I was drunk yet). He came over smooth like Billy Dee (for those of you under 35 years of age – smooth like Barack Obama) and bent down and whispered something into Felicia’s ear, never breaking eye contact with me. And then as smoothly as came, he returned to his table. Leaning towards me, Felicia said, “Apparently, you have toilet paper hanging out of the back of your pants.”
For what felt like an eternity (but was probably 15 seconds) everything seemed to go still, go completely quiet. Why did stuff like this always happen to me? This was worse than when I farted in the face of my super-cute gymnastics coach while attempting a pull-over on the uneven bars (at least that I could blame that on youth and 25 extra pounds of “baby-fat”). This was even more embarrassing than when my house was broken into and my six-year old son pick up a pair of my thong underwear in front of the police officer and said, “Look Mommy, the bad guys even stole the back of your underpants”! But then I drew off the class and dignity of my age, tapped into my inner Stella, and reached slyly behind my back and pulled what amount to about a foot of toilet paper out of the waistband of my slacks. Mortified I wadded it up and discretely stuffed it into the crease of the chair. I then signaled the waitress and ordered a shot of tequila, because when you have half a roll of toilet paper hangin’ from your ass, who cares if you if you’ve got a wandering eye?
*snort*
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