I adjusted my hair in the mirror not sure what look I was going for but sure I was not achieving it. Messy can be sexy, but it can also just be messy. I pulled it back, but that looked just as bad. I put it up, then put it down. I shook it out. And shook and shook.
I was actually going to spend some time with a member of the opposite sex, so I thought I’d give looking presentable a shot. Then I tried that come hither look some women can pull off. However, after checking the mirror, I decided no man was going to come to my hither. I tried cute, but men don’t want to date 15-year olds. I tried mature, but looked like a mother of two kids, a mother that didn’t know how to dress herself.
I wished the lady who lives one floor above were around as I put clips and pins into my hair. From our one dinner, she seemed like someone who knew how to pull off come hither, cute, mature, or any other look I couldn’t.
After the fourth pin and third clip went in I was about to give up when I decided this guy would love a girl who didn’t try to look good and who didn’t look like she spent an hour getting ready. I would have a natural look (albeit one that took me 45 minutes to obtain).
I wouldn’t even be going on this date if my mother didn’t set me up. Oh, honey, he’s such a sweet guy, she said. And handsome, and he works just across the street, I mean, I see him everyday, so I knew it must be a sign. I showed him a picture of you and he was more than happy to accept the date.
“Mom,” I said over the phone when she called me with the alleged good news, “You showed him my high school yearbook photo. I look 12 in that picture. The guy is probably a pervert looking for some young girl to molest.”
She brushed off that notion with a quick, “I told him you were a grown woman and a teacher. He’s too nice to be a pervert.”
I gave her the big sigh, the one that says, “I hate you so much right now.” But I caved, hung up the phone, and then cursed myself for caving.
I had no clue what he looked like, who he was, what he did, or if he indeed was “too nice to be a pervert,” but if he saw my high school yearbook photo and still agreed to see me, I owed him this one date.
When I checked my watch I noticed two things: it seemed to have stopped working and I seemed to be late. And since I didn’t know when it stopped, I had no idea how late I was. Running to the microwave, I saw that I was 15 minutes late. Great way to make a first impression.
I applied my make-up as quickly, but neatly, as possible, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. It wasn’t 10 seconds before I ran back inside realizing I was barefoot. I threw on my boots, grabbed my coat and was finally ready to meet the man (or pervert) of my dreams.
It’s been said that things happen for a reason. Many people believe in destiny – that things are predetermined – that we have no control over our own lives. If that’s true, then whoever was in control of my life sure has a sense of humor. About 20 minutes after I ran out the door, I found myself laid out on someone’s front lawn, having almost been run down. Of course, it was entirely my fault.
I’m not sure exactly how I survived. But I looked around once I gathered my bearings and didn’t see anyone. Could someone have almost killed me and simply driven away? You would think a little courtesy to the nearly deceased would be appropriate, but apparently not. Though, I must admit, had I not foolishly tried to reapply my lip gloss while going 40 miles per hour, I wouldn’t be lying on someone’s lawn.
It took a few minutes, but I eventually stood, found my car, which was no longer running and somehow not imbedded in a tree, and attempted to walk toward it. Unfortunately, I made it two or three steps before I was down again. That’s when I heard a voice ask me if I needed help.
“You almost run me down and you have the gall to ask if I need help,” I spat out, more miffed at myself for my own stupidity.
“Actually” he answered rather calmly, “I just got here and saw you lying down.”
Well, didn’t I feel like an idiot (again). An apology would have been forthcoming until I realized I didn’t know if he was telling the truth or not.
“Sorry if I don’t believe you, but things happened so fast I’m not quite sure who you are or where you came from.” I tried to stand again, which I executed flawlessly. But then I took a step and fell forward face first only to be grabbed a second before I smacked into the ground.
“Forgive my rudeness,” he apologized. “But I’m not sure whether you’re drunk or injured.” He tenderly helped me back to my feet. “I don’t want to assume anything or come across like an insensitive jerk.” He paused, and then continued, “Do you need me to hold you up?”
Annoyed he thought I appeared drunk, I shook him off. “Excuse me, but I can stand on my own. I just have trouble walking, and, no, I’m not drunk. But thanks for your concern. It’s touching.”
Wow, when did I become a bitch? I tried to calm myself down. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just a little confused. One minute I’m driving, the next I’m lying here.”
I took a second to actually look at the man who may or may not have run me off the road. He was beautiful, if a little peculiar, with blond hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t tall, dark and handsome, but something about him had me entrapped. His eyes, perhaps.
“My name is Lin,” he offered. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I know one of the signs of intoxication is unsteadiness on the feet. And, well, clearly your feet are quite unsteady.”
He offered to call the police or an ambulance, but I declined both offers. I had somehow regained the ability to walk straight and decided I could drive myself home.
“I’m fine,” I offered. “Thank you, though. I appreciate your concern.” I walked to my car and looked back over my shoulder to see my hero (villain?) waving to me.
“Maybe we’ll meet again,” he said, as he continued to watch me walk away.
I debated for a second trying to act sexy, to put a little extra bounce in my step. Problem was, I didn’t have any bounce, so I just walked normally, got in my car, waved goodbye and drove home.
