*What follows for this Smart Bitches Day might very well fall under the heading of “Too Much Information.” You have been warned.
In the grand spectrum of romances, the accidental meeting that leads to the romantic interlude is not uncommon. Nor is it strange for that meeting to take place after an embarrassing situation. In real life, however, we rarely want to stick around and meet the people we’ve embarrassed ourselves in front of, let alone strike up a romantic relationship with them.
Take what happened to me just the other day, a little something we’ll call the bra incident. I woke up late that morning and had to rush to get ready so that I could arrive in time for my opening shift. As I pulled out my work clothes I realized that all of my bras were drying downstairs in the laundry room. No problem, I thought, I’ll just put on my shirt, grab my bra, and put it on when I get to work. I was going to have to drive anyway so it wasn’t like I was going to be jiggling down the street as I jogged to the store.
Only the main streets I usually take were blocked by construction, and I was forced to go around. The route I ended up on may have one of the longest lights in the city and I realized after I sat through one—only advancing two spaces during the brief green—that I was going to have do something soon. My original plan to finish dressing didn’t take into account my need to get my caffeine addiction serviced by Starbucks, nor the fact that as soon as I get into the mall I freeze thanks to the A/C. I didn’t exactly want to wander into my local coffee shop with my “headlights” on. Of course, none this would matter if I couldn’t get to work early enough to get some coffee, and traffic was being a real bitch.
A quick scan revealed that the guy in the truck next to me was staring straight ahead and the driver in front of me wasn’t looking in their rearview mirror. Years of theatre, swim team and camp (not to mention the naturally female ability) had taught me how to change/pull clothes on without revealing any bare skin, and so it seemed only logical that I take care of my bra problem there.
Yes, obviously I was not awake yet, but I managed it. Looped the seatbelt around my knee, pulled my arms inside my shirt, wiggled there, jiggled here, a shrug and then I was done. Barely a strip of skin bared, and changing wouldn’t dig into my coffee time.
It was only as I was resituating my seatbelt that I noticed the guy in the truck: thirties, clean cut, casual business dress, and the biggest grin on his face. His cheeks must have hurt later that day because, good god, that smile was wide. As I made eye contact he raised his hands and slowly began to clap.
I. Was. Mortified. Turned bright, tomato red. In a daze I pretended to bow and then turned to look straight ahead.
Thankfully the light chose that moment to change, and the traffic actually started moving. My “audience” was kind enough to let me cut in front of him so that I could make it into the parking garage, but the entire time I feared that he would (or had to) park there also. If he’d followed me into the garage I probably would have run. If he’d approached me, I probably would have maced him or expired on the spot.
But had this been a romance novel I would now have the number of some stunningly gorgeous man (because, of course, he would have been stunningly gorgeous, not to mention totally impressed by my ingenuity), and he’d be buying me dinner right now at some elegant restaurant. Instead I’ll be running out to the grocery store in a few minutes to snag the veges for stir fry. Had this been a romance novel I could guarantee that this guy didn’t go tell his whole office about the girl he saw performing a bra-Houdini trick in the front seat of her car instead of putting on mascara or liner like all the normal girls.
Life is not a romance novel, however, and I’m really hoping that he has a bad, bad memory for faces because I may die if he ever walks into my store and recognizes me.