I woke yesterday and had that languid kind of relaxed non-rushed feeling. It was a weekend feeling, transplanted to 7 am Monday morning, a rare thing indeed, especially when my day was due to be filled with a long conference call, a frantic search for a tailor to possibly take in my Scully suit, and a big spreadsheet that I’m filling in slowly and surely, one cell at a time from a bazillion other spreadsheets.
I ended up donning my Hottie Jeans (TM), sneakers (which are like Keds and not like Reeboks or New Balances, in case there was any confusion), and a plain white t-shirt (one of the cache of $3 t-shirts that June purchased for me… I heart my Mother-In-Law. In fact, she’s a Mother-In-Rawk.). Then I floofed up my hair (which is sexier than fluffing), pinned a rhinestone barrette in place, and took a gander in the mirror.
I was right sexy. Damn.
I did a little hip hip wiggleness. Man! Look at me! Sometimes I am so incredibly cute I can barely stand it.
I went to work and proceeded to garner compliments left and right. I talked to Penny for a bit and she adored my jeans, and then made me turn around so she could check out my butt. And what a butt it was. I’m not often filled with butt self-love, but yesterday, my butt was working it. It was winking at boys and they were asking to buy it drinks. It was up on the bar, dancing with the bartender and the club owners. The DJs were asking me if they could make a mix tape for my butt. Roadies were approaching my butt and asking if it wanted to meet the band backstage or maybe go back to the hotel for drinks afterwards. Peter Gabriel wrote a song about it called “Above Her Thighs” and then John Cusack came and stood outside its bedroom window, holding a boombox playing that song over his head.
In other words, the Hottie Jeans are a good thing.
I explained to Pennilicious that the jeans with their swooshy boot cut legs and weathered stripy looking things down the front and back, combined with the itty bitty shiny barrettey made me feel as though I were sixteen years old. Penny gave me a puzzled look.
Then I declared “I could be sixteen. I’m cuter now than I was when I was sixteen.”
“Well, maybe 18,” she offered. I ignored her completely.
Then Carissa came by and immediately volunteered “Wow! Look at you! So cute!”.
“I look sixteen, don’t I?” I asked hopefully.
“Maybe 20.” She replied diplomatically.
You’ve just got to love friends who are willing to play to your delusions but still honest enough to not let you go completely over the deep end. And honestly, I’ve got way bigger hooters now than I did when I was sixteen. And am not struggling to pass the road test or get the cute yet geeky senior with the dreamy eyes to look my way. Although had I known what I know now, I probably would have walked up to Chuck and said “Look, Chuck, I know you’re probably shy but how about you and I go to a movie this Saturday night? And maybe if you smell good, I’ll let you chew on my lips later.” and not wait until he drew many comic book monsters and superheroes, filling an entire page in my yearbook, before I realized too late that we’d been staring longingly at each other all year but had been too shy to do anything. Gah.
If only I had the Jeans of Hotness then. My life would have been so entirely different. I would have had left a trail of shy adorable cute boys in my wake. I could have had computer viruses named after me. I could have been somebody.
Nah. It was probably God’s way of equalizing out the world. If I had been all Hottie Boom Bottie at the tender age of sixteen, rather than the not-as-tender-yet-not-tough-like-shoe-leather age of 31, I might have burned out like a brief flame, extinguished far too quickly. Like Faith on Buffy. She too understands the power of Hottie Pants and look where it got her. Written off the series so she could go out and wear a leather cat suit in a Jay and Silent Bob movie, that’s where.
So it’s probably a good thing. But I was incredibly cute yesterday. Two separate people stopped me in the cafeteria to either tell me how incredible I looked or to inquire how much weight I’ve lost (answer: I don’t know… I haven’t weighed myself since early July). Even after I switched to the Adorable Jammies which include my girly boxer shorts, I still looked like a chubby version of Meg Ryan, with that whole “somehow a woman but also somehow a little girl” kind of sexy thing that guys seem to love. It was lost on Esteban, who is still in the throws of Nyquil induced delirium and spends long hours sitting on the sofa in a nest of Hall’s wrappers and grape juice bottles. The neighbor man got all excited when I ran outside to fetch something from my car though. He yelled over “Hey, Weetabix! Isn’t it lovely outside! Can you believe this weather? I think it’s getting hot out here… I’m gonna take off all my clothes… oooh yeah.” which is far less fetching coming from a 50-year-old former hippy with Coke-bottle glasses and a gaggle of piddling Shih-tzus swarming around his ankles.
But today I’m back in my flat fronts which are too loose and thus the Pants of Expansion. I was too lazy to search for one of the three pairs that actually fit over my still curvy and ample bottom. Besides, we can’t be hotties every day. We divas must be magnanimous and Clark Kent some days. It’s only fair to the normal non-curvy non-goddess types.
