At the airport and I'm standing next to a tall, stunning, model-thin, blonde woman carrying a Birkin purse and Chanel carry-on. Truly, she's all that and a bag of couture chips. Meanwhile, I'm rocking a pair of oversize jeans (yay! I've lost more weight; boo! I have no booty), Mackinac hoodie, and summer flats with a pair of white socks. Yes, we could be twins.
So there we stand and this man just can't quit staring at her. He's trying but j.u.s.t.
can't not look. Stare and look away. Repeat. Stare and look away. Repeat. (She handles it quite well, I observe, as it's gotta get annoying at some point.) Stare, look away until I make direct eye contact with Gazer Man then smile broadly in a "Aw, I can't believe you can't quit staring at my beauty," kind of appreciative way.
He's stunned. Gobsmacked. Confused. As he finds other sights on which to feast, Model Girl then turns to me and smiles.
My job here is done.
He's stunned. Gobsmacked. Confused. As he finds other sights on which to feast, Model Girl then turns to me and smiles.
My job here is done.
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