"Let's get falafel and some Stella," He says.
I take a quick look in the mirror: frizzy hair, unruly eyebrows, a pinkish growth decorates my chin. All convenient excuses. "Um, I've too much to catch up on tonight, " I say, knowing full well I'm going to plop my ass in front of my computer, "researching" shoes and Googling my former college brethren (Oh, Samantha So-and-So's in PR now!). These are my obsessions these days.
He lets out an exaggerated, disappointed-sounding sigh, as if I was his only hope for Friday night beers and Middle Eastern food. I can't help but feel unnecessarily important and wanted and attractive. Again, I repeat, unnecessarily. If only he could see this "together" woman, sitting at her computer with a bag of stale, chewy popcorn, a surprisingly sweet peach, and a can of gross Diet Coke, hunched over a pad and doodling a stick figure wearing shoes I can only hope are Prada. Doodling! I'm sure catching up on a lot, aren't I?
When He hangs up, I call Jan (a fabulously gay Swede I call my best friend) and proceed to inquire why I did what I did: "I mean, how long does it take to run a flat-iron through my hair? Or apply concealer to my chin?" I ask him.
Of course Jan is preparing to go out and has no time for my current self-sabotaging efforts to have NO LIFE. "Zaftig, call the guy up and go eat fuckin' falafels and have a few beers."
"Maybe."
Instead, I dip further into my bag of popcorn, and head over to Jimmy Choo to fantasize. With no highlight treatment this month, no pricey cappuccinos, and a week of paltry Healthy Choice TV dinners, my footsies will be decked accordingly.
I take a quick look in the mirror: frizzy hair, unruly eyebrows, a pinkish growth decorates my chin. All convenient excuses. "Um, I've too much to catch up on tonight, " I say, knowing full well I'm going to plop my ass in front of my computer, "researching" shoes and Googling my former college brethren (Oh, Samantha So-and-So's in PR now!). These are my obsessions these days.
He lets out an exaggerated, disappointed-sounding sigh, as if I was his only hope for Friday night beers and Middle Eastern food. I can't help but feel unnecessarily important and wanted and attractive. Again, I repeat, unnecessarily. If only he could see this "together" woman, sitting at her computer with a bag of stale, chewy popcorn, a surprisingly sweet peach, and a can of gross Diet Coke, hunched over a pad and doodling a stick figure wearing shoes I can only hope are Prada. Doodling! I'm sure catching up on a lot, aren't I?
When He hangs up, I call Jan (a fabulously gay Swede I call my best friend) and proceed to inquire why I did what I did: "I mean, how long does it take to run a flat-iron through my hair? Or apply concealer to my chin?" I ask him.
Of course Jan is preparing to go out and has no time for my current self-sabotaging efforts to have NO LIFE. "Zaftig, call the guy up and go eat fuckin' falafels and have a few beers."
"Maybe."
Instead, I dip further into my bag of popcorn, and head over to Jimmy Choo to fantasize. With no highlight treatment this month, no pricey cappuccinos, and a week of paltry Healthy Choice TV dinners, my footsies will be decked accordingly.