The other day, I was looking really good. No, like really good.
Great hair, great outfit, great smile… I’m talkin’ goooooood.
So, where do you go when you’re looking as good as I was?
Broad Ripple, duh.
I’m walking down the sidewalk, the sun shining, a pep in my step, hair blowing in the wind, smiling at strangers. The picture of poise and confidence. (A far cry from my usually painfully-awkward, insecure, generally clumsy existence.)
As I’m walking, I glance across the street at a bar. It’s one of those super-cool ones, where the walls all open up along the sidewalks when it’s nice outside so patrons can enjoy the weather and people watch. When I look over, I notice a group of handsome young men drinking at a table, looking back at me.
“Oh, men,” I laugh to myself. “Always checking out women. Look at them, looking at me. So typical.”
I look away. Coquettishly, I look back.
Still watching me.
“My my,” I roll my eyes. “So rude, all those stares. They can probably tell I’m wearing new eyeshadow. Oh, men. So immature sometimes.”
I look down. I look up.
“Oh dear,” I flutter my eyelashes. “Take a picture already, it’ll last longer. Ha ha. I’m so funny. And pretty. [Hair toss.] I bet they –”
I walked into a pole.
“OHMIGOD I WALKED INTO A POLE! A POLE! Play it cool, Jillian. Play it realllll cool. Maybe they didn’t see.”
Casually, I side-stepped the pole, straightened my skirt and continued down the sidewalk. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I peeked back at the bar.
I briefly considered jumping into the canal to escape my humiliation, but then I realized I can’t swim. Plus, the water would have messed up my hair.
And, despite my wounded pride, my hair was still lookin’ reallllllly good.
I’m sure that’s what those guys remember.