Pretty Woman

I have often wondered why I am still single – and not just when some lame ass guy in a bar asks me in lieu of a cheesy pick-up line. Seriously, I am smart, funny, at least a six on a scale of one to ten, so why then don’t I always have a date for major holidays.

When I was younger, my mother would tell me it is because I am too intimidating (now she tells me it is because I am too picky). At the time I shrugged her off, blaming it on something more tangible, like my small breasts or my big nose or my protruding chin.

Now, though, I wonder if my mother wasn’t on to something. Now I think that guys don’t often approach me because most guys don’t think they can afford me.

Let me explain.

First, I don’t often go out on a Friday night wearing dirty jeans and work make-up. Even on Friday nights that I go out straight from work I usually put on a good face. But this Friday night was different.

I was home with my hair pulled back, wearing my glasses, boy-shorts, a zip-up sweater and Uggs. I had two glasses of wine and had spent my evening watching the debate and texting the Republican. I knew there was a chance Stanley would text wanting to hang out, but I guess most of me figured, after a long train ride back from New York, he may prefer to spend the rainy Friday night home with his dog.

Second, as noted above, it was raining. And we were only headed to a neighborhood bar to wait for Bridie to fill us in on her crucial is-there-any-chemistry second date. I saw no point in making a pair of clean jeans filthy, especially when the ones I chose had at least one more wear in them. The sweater I was wearing that night, well there is no excuse really for this sweater. It is a work sweater that my mom bought me. Practical enough, but not something I would ever wear to a bar on a night that I was looking to pull. Of course if I was looking for a boyfriend I also wouldn’t have walked out of my apartment with my bangs clipped back.

Okay, to recap, it was 10:45, on a rainy Friday night. I was wearing dirty jeans, an ugly purple sweater, flip flops (why not) with my bangs pinned back and only eyebrows on my face. I needed a cab and so I stepped out into the "loading only" spot in front of my apartment and stared at the oncoming traffic.

I wasn’t out there long when a big, white Mercedes-Benz with an equally as large white man pulled up along side of me and rolled down his window. Later, Stanley would ask if I thought the guy was going to ask for directions. Actually I thought the guy wanted to park illegally as I stepped back toward the curb.

But he wasn’t looking for directions or even a parking space. Instead he yelled out the window, “Looking for a date?”

I don’t think it immediately registered what he was asking because it took me a minute to respond. And even when I did muster “No, I’m looking for a cab.” I don’t think I was all that convincing as he remained double parked in front of me as if waiting for me to change my mind.
When he finally did pull away and a cab pulled up it hit me -- I was just propositioned on Broad Street.

The next day, when I got to tell Bridie about my night (as it turns out there was chemistry) she said she was relieved this happened. She had wanted to tell me for sometime now that I look like a high-class hooker, she just didn’t know how to bring it up.

I told her I was going to make myself a t-shirt that read “20% off.”