Wednesdays I work my shift at the gym. They usually go something like this:
9:37pm [Tuesday night]: Awesome, I'll get to bed in a couple of minutes and rock out seven hours of sleep!
9:42pm: I need to stop saying things like rock out.
9:47pm: The kids don't say "rock out" anymore, do they?
11:47pm: After an exhaustive google search, a smattering of MySpace pages, an IM conversation with a friend's daughter and four glasses of wine - a medical necessity on the last part. (I need to dull my senses before feasting my retinas on the visual vomit that is the 'Space so I don't collpase into an epileptic seizure.)
12:02am: bedtime!
1:14am: If I fall asleep now, I can get three hours of sleep.
2:49am: I am totally awake. But I still get two more hours. Score!
4:46am: [ALARM]
5:01am: Dear Ex-Agent: I hope you come down with a raging case of crotch scorpions.
Then it's off to work. I shower, in the sense that I stand naked, half-asleep under the showerhead like a post-roofie cocktail sorority girl. I needed to wash my hair yesterday, as I was walking that fine line between super shiny and can I get grease with that?, but, y'know, I was going to work at the gym. Where I rent spin shoes to people. Where I pick up sweaty towels. The only glamorous part is when famous people sweat on me (this esteemed list includes: Nicole Kidman, Alicia Silverstone, and Justin Timberlake.)
In short: I look like a sleep-deprived chubby, greasy-haired zombie who's just been through a gangbang with with bunch of ultramarathoners who have neglected to shower post-race.
(But, y'know, I have a good personality.)
Post-work, I headed out to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner. I needed to hit both the Ralph's and the Trader Joe's, so I pointed my car East toward LaBrea where the stores are located across the street from each other. I was in the Trader Joe's in the dairy aisle (picking up feta cheese for that evening's greek chicken salad) when I noticed him staring at me.
He caught me looking and looked away, so I took a moment to study his face. I may forget your name, but I never forget a face. Nope, not even remotely familiar. Slight fauxhawk, big sunglasses. Sort of generic hipster. I continued shopping. I could feel him still staring at me, and I began to wonder if maybe he was a blog reader? The only place I ever ran into readers was in the Trader Joes.
I reached over someone to grab a package of smoked turkey breast when I realized that someone was him. He smiled.
I'm sorry, he told me, I can't stop staring. I find myself inexplicably drawn to you. He had a slight British accent.
Maybe I look like your sister, I responded, none-too-helpfully.
He laughed. I shouldn't say inexplicably, he said. Actually, you're totally my type. I just, I've never seen someone who just was completely my type.
His voice shook a bit. I realized he was nervous.
Is that crazy? he asked, I would ask--
I held up my left hand. Thank you so much, I told him, but I'm married.
He laughed, almost relieved.
Okay, then. He turned to walk away. Wait.
I waited.
Happily? he asked.
Happily, I responded.
He's a lucky man. And you can't blame a bloke for trying!
We went our separate ways. I was at the checkout when he finished up at the checkout a few aisles down, and he waved as he left.
Clearly the key to sexiness is looking like you don't give a shit. If I hadn't showered, I'd be Eva frickin' Mendes.
... Also: a many thanks to The Bloggess for listing me as one of the people who she'd want at her dinner party. I don't think I'll steal a baby, since they can't hold their liquor. Showering is currently undecided.
