Normally it's not this bad. I find this picture almost inexplicable. That doesn't even look like my face. When I look like this, my friends call me Roberta. I don't know why, but there you have it. Anyway, I digress. Yesterday's mascara was smudged underneath my eyes, giving me a delightful look I've started calling "Last Night's Party," or sometimes, "Heroine Junky." I was wearing a purple shirt, red and brown shoes that I only noticed later do not match my shirt, and jeans that are so faded and worn out even I am embarrassed to be seen wearing them, and that's saying something. I looked pretty bad. Not as bad as the picture above, but not great. I'm only filling you in on my wardrobe and physical appearance because I feel the visual image will assist you in seeing the gross self-deception involved in the story I am about to tell you.
I pulled up in my car and as I'm sitting there unbuckling, a very cute hunky dude comes walking up the sidewalk and looks right at me. I look back. "Hello, hunky dude," I say to myself in a sultry whisper. Clearly he read my mind, or at least my lascivious intentions, because he smiles at me. A wonderful, private, intimate smile. Goose bumps. I smile back. "Hey, hey, hey, Cheastypants," I think to myself. "You're lookin' hot today! Look who's checking you out!"
I didn't take a picture of hunky dude, but this is my attempt at communicating just exactly how hunky this dude was.
Ha ha! Just kidding. Perhaps just imagine Patrick Dempsey with a better chin. He was pretty hunky. Anyway, I get out of my car and sashay over to the door, blissfully unaware of how horrific I look because, in typical Amazing Cheastypants form, I had neglected to look in a mirror before leaving the house. He gazes soulfully into my eyes and holds the door for me. "Thanks," I whisper coyly, and smile demurely up at him as I walk by. I remember the lessons I learned while observing a particularly sexy friend of mine in an experiment I conducted many months ago (a story for another time) and think, "OK, swing your hips when you walk. Don't be too obvious, but give him open body language. F%^K! Why am I so bad at this game? I can't remember all the rules. Do I play hard to get? Should I look at him again? How about now? Now?" God, sometimes I long for the days of arranged marriages.
I get my cup of tea and sit down in a comfy chair. I notice that while initially Hunky Dude had set up on a table at the opposite end of the shop, he now picks up his book and coffee and moves to a table right near me. He looks at me meaningfully as he passes. I blush and hyperventilate, and stare fixedly at the book I have on my lap. I look up again. He is looking at me, holding up a book, showing me a title page that reads Love in the Time of Cholera. "A bold move," I muse. "What on earth is he trying to communicate?" I try speaking his language. I hold up my book, which is called Sexual Revolution in Early America. (Dont' ask.) This seems awfully forward to me. We haven't even had our first date, and already we're talking about sex and love. Then I notice the look on his face. He looks confused. He looks at me, and then at the book again. Back at me. Then he blushes, and then stares fixedly into his coffee cup.
"Oh, no!" I cry (in my head). "I've blown it! He thinks I'm a weirdo, a sexual deviant! I should go explain. No I shouldn't. Yes, I should. No. Yes. No. Maybe in a minute?" I sit for a moment, gathering my courage, thinking, "Come on, Cheastypants! This is the 21st Century! Women are allowed to make the first move these days. Lead by example." So I get up. I casually stretch, look around to make sure nobody's watching, and then I start walking toward him. He looks up, and looks at me with intense concentration. "Yes," I think. "He's willing me to come to him!" He begins to smile, and stands up. He's walking towards me. Oh, be still my beating heart!
Wait a minute.
He walks past me. I turn around, and see him walk right up to a petite brunette, holding a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera prominently in front of her. They smile. He starts to shake her hand, while she leans in for a hug. They stop, confused. They laugh. They speak quiet words, and then he hugs her. They return to his table, and as they pass he shoots me a sheepish, and yet somewhat relieved, smile.
I go to the bathroom to pretend that I was up and walking around for some other reason than going to hit on him. I look in the mirror. I faint. Three hours later, I wake up in a hospital. Again, just kidding. Really, I started to laugh, but that's not quite as dramatic an ending, now, is it? I fixed up my hair and remnants of yesterday's makeup as best as I could, then I went back to my chair and listened to them having charmingly awkward blind date conversation for the next hour or so. For those who are interested, it went fairly well. He's an architect, she's a social worker, they both love dogs and prefer the beach to the mountains. I'm pretty sure they'll be seeing each other again.