This past Thursday I arrived home from rehearsal and remembered--I should probably eat something. I decided to set out for a veggie burger at my local tavern, but mid-walk [to my HORROR] I realized it was St. Patty’s Day. “Oh no,” I thought! All the local, single youths would surely be out and about, quaffed to the nines, getting hammered; while I [no make-up, in baggy sweatpants, beat-up sneakers, and a purple pajama top] slink out alone for a late night dinner.
I stopped dead in the middle of the side-walk. Had anyone seen me? Was there time to turn back? Maybe I could run home, throw on my face and then go out. Suddenly, my stomach growled angrily as if to say “I’m not waiting another hour while you make yourself beautiful, Alex. Suck it up and get some friggin food!”
I took a deep breath and decided to own it. I was what I was, and it wasn’t so bad.
As expected the tavern was packed, so I kept walking to the burrito place on the corner. Ordinarily, I’d allow my bare face to define me, shyly approaching the servers and avoiding eye contact. But not tonight! No, tonight I would march right up there, tighten the draw string on my sweat pants and say “One chipotle shrimp quesadilla, extra guacamole!”
Guacamole Guy met my confident order with a smile. “Coming right up!” he replied enthusiastically.
Much to my surprise, this confidence rouse was working. In fact, Guacamole Guy actually engaged me in conversation while I awaited my food. I soon learned that he had recently graduated from SUNY Purchase and was waiting to hear back from NYU regarding grad school admissions. He seemed smart, funny, and oddly handsome—but I knew not to get my hopes up: I was in sweat pants, and he was just being friendly.
Unfortunately, my suspicions were confirmed when he allowed me walk out without even the slightest come on.
“Oh well,” I thought as I walked away.
Just then, over the sound of bag pipes and loud tavern patrons I heard a distinct “excuse me, miss” echoing from behind. I turned around to see one of the servers, running after me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget something?” I asked, double checking my purse.
“No, actually the cashier wanted you to have this.” He handed me a napkin. On it was Guacamole Guy’s number. “Have a good night!”
Was this the luck of the Irish? Had something magical occurred? I looked down: The same baggy sweatpants, the same beat up sneakers, the same purple pajama top. No, I had not been transformed, this man was simply attracted to me—bare faced, poorly dressed me.
...And this little scrub strutted confidently all the way home!