Dear Men of the World,
When I throw an oversized sweater over-top a full-length formal gown, while rocking DIY spray-painted wedge platforms and a messy ponytail…I am not looking for your attention. I am probably sick. Or cold. Or, as was the case last Wednesday, a combination of the two. If I were looking for your attention, I would hook myself into a push-up bra, shimmy into a rash-inducing polyester/spandex body-con dress from Wet Seal, and strap my feet into a pair of stripper stilettos. As was the case last Friday.* Let’s not complicate things here.
*That wasn’t actually the case last Friday. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch.
The Scene: I’m walking past the Four Seasons, en route to a BFF brunch at my beloved La Convo. Unfortunately, just before I hit the corner, I get wrangled into a less-yummy breed of conversation.
The Players: Miniature Man (a height-challenged gentleman, with a flock of blond hair, straight off the set of Wall Street, who came trotting up on my left side out of NOWHERE)& Me (head down, fingers gripping the ends of my sleeves, under-the weather and under-enthused by the concept of speaking with strangers)
Miniature Man: I know someone who wants attention!
This is not so much an ice-breaker as it is an ice-creator. Congratulations, MM. I already hate you.
I don’t even have the energy to play this game right now. Or ever, for that matter.
Miniature Man: Pointing at my ensemble That looks spectacular!
Me: Thanks. It’s super-cozy.
Please leave me alone. Also, why are you walking right next to me/why am I unable to throw you off with my frequent slash drastic changes in pace?
Miniature Man: You must be an M-O-D-E-L.
Please. Like I’d be able to spell that out?
I hate people.