I’ve always found a light shade of summer freckle on a man to be an attractive feature. Pair that with an effortless baseball cap and I’m probably halfway to love.
It’s as if I’ve formulated this notion that if you’re a freckled man, you’re an approachable man, you’re a good man; worthy of my planting a kiss on the impression the sun has left on you.
If only all that were true.
An age has come where it’s slightly acceptable to try on men like I try on expensive shoes at Marshall Fields. This is an age of adventure over substance. The thing about expensive shoes and a less than unlimited bank account is that you can try the shoes on but you’ll always find a reason to put them back on the display so that you can afford the important things in life instead, like bubble bath.
What fictionalized romance fails to stress is the need to be ready at all times. By ready I mean legs that are ready for cute little skirts. Razors are your friends. Unless you prefer ripping the hair from your skin in the socially acceptable masochistic practice called waxing. Then that lady at the salon down the street is your friend.
The thing about being “ready” in an age of inconsistent romance though, is that the guy you were planning on wearing a mini skirt for tomorrow night suddenly wants to meet up right after work today. That kind of switcharoo sure makes the hairs on the back of your legs stand right up, doesn’t it?
It was supposed to be my first date with the artist guy tomorrow night, and my first date as a new single. We had bumped into each other on the blue line for the first time last month. I immediately recognized him as the kid who used to sit in the corner of our high school art room finishing up his various projects and he immediately recognized me as the ugly duckling who used to semi-creepily watch as he brought magic to canvas. He gave me the “you’re way hotter than you were in high school” look that I always crave from my former peers and I gave him the overenthusiastic wide-grinned “hey!” that told him I was newly single and just learning how to talk to members of the opposite sex again. He asked me out last week when we saw each other on the train yet again.
I accepted. We had scheduled for tomorrow but today he had done that whole switcharoo thing on me that made me hyper aware of my unshaven legs, despite the fact that I had no intention of wearing a mini skirt that day. I decided to just be that girl who’s cool with being spontaneous and I met him for drinks right after finishing my last project at work. My nerves were sky rocketing and my mind was racing and grasping for topics that we could possibly discuss. Then those little inside burps I get when I’m way nervous or when I’ve had too much pizza started. I hadn’t had any pizza since last week so it was clearly the nerves. I stood outside the bar and willed myself to chill out. By the time I sat down across from him on the insanely comfortable booth right next to the fireplace, I was exhausted. I began to care less and less about the horrible stunted conversation we were having as I drank some hard cider and enjoyed the atmosphere. He was no longer the artist I was intrigued by so I had a good time without him while in his less than stimulating company. That night I came home and shaved, because what else is there to do after a failure of a first date but begin again with clean legs?