Saturday, March 26, 2005

She ain't pretty, she just looks that way...

I woke up this morning and nearly wept when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I wasn't prepared, you see. But my eyes were drawn by movement and before I could stop myself I was looking right at my reflection. The light was bad, my posture terrible, yesterday's mascara had crept down to my cheekbones and somehow, overnight my hair had divided into a severe and unbecoming centre part. It was so horrible and cruel and uncalled for. And to make matters worse I had to go meet a nice fellow for lunch - in 30 minutes.

No time to shower - I washed my face, flat-ironed my bangs and hastily applied make up. I took a risk and threw together an outfit I had tried on and discarded a few times earlier in the week. A white pencil skirt, black t-shirt, a black leather hoodie and black slouchy boots. Once I was dressed, I stood back to inspect my wardrobing in the mirror and immediately wanted to change, but as usual I was already running late. So, off I went feeling like a sack of shit - a graphically suited up sack of shit, if you will.

Well let me tell you, during my 25 minute walk to the restaurant I was checked out more times than I 'd been since my early twenties when I dressed like a total whore. Some strange guy instructed me to smile (I hate it when people do that) and informed me life can't be that bad for someone as cute as me. What a strange and keenly observant man!

So, this was good. I desperately needed to feel a bit better about my appearance before my lunch date. But, then again my admirer was wearing a hockey jersey and moccasins. I wasn't convinced. Then some brutha gave me a "What's up girl?" from his car window. A nice car too. Something was going on. Either I had gotten my period in my white skirt and men were trying to warn me using some weird sympathetic code or I was looking rather smoking.

My lunch date complimented me twice which was most appreciated and a quick trip to the bathroom eliminated the menstrual theory. I no longer felt monstrously hideous. In fact, I was starting to believe my own press. I couldn't be sure, but it would appear that I did indeed look pretty fucking good.

After lunch I went to check out the shops and things only got better, my friends. Some very young fellow told me I was sexy, a drunk and disorderly street fellow said "Hello, gorgeous" , a bike courier smiled at me and some greaseball sitting outside the Blenz told me he liked my boots. And really, who am I to go against popular opinion? I simply had to trust the very good taste of the men-folk on the street.

I will wear the same outfit tomorrow and hell, maybe the day after that, too. In fact, I'm wearing it now as I sit on my couch - alone on a Friday night. It's for the best, really. I wouldn't want to sully my winning outfit with smoke, spilled drinks No way.

Time for sleep. Tomorrow it's out to the valley for a good old-fashioned family Easter. Fear not, fellow attractive readers, my mother will be certain to take care of this recent bout of conceit. She's very good, I assure you.


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