"Not this weekend or next weekend," announced Jen, while our phones rang off the hook and we tried our best to ignore them. "But the next weekend -"
"That one might not work for me," said Mary.
"Well whatever - we're gonna, first - we gotta go shopping. I'm going to take you shopping. We're gonna get you a push-up bra, cuz girl I bet you got 4 miles of cleavage in there! We're gonna get you all gussied up, okay." She broke into sing-song, "We're gonna push them titties up (for the record, 'titties' is one of those words that never sounds good - no matter when or how it's said - or who says it), put some make-up on you, do your hair, make you look all pretty..."
"And get you laid." said Mary. Declaratively.
I don't "gussie". I "jeans" and "Old Navy". I think when I put some effort into it - I can look pretty descent. I have to put some effort into it though. In this town, we go to the same bars and see the same people and no matter how badly you're dressed or how drunk they are - they want to "jump your bones" (that's a quote - as in from a real life experience - that took place after 1994 when that expression was old). So effort is rarely used in going out.
In the first episode of "Weeds", the mother-in-law to Elisabeth Perkins' character looks at her granddaughter and says, "You can't wear your hair down, sweetheart. You got that Jew hair from your father. Pull it back until you're old enough to have it straightened." Amen. I don't blow dry. I don't make-up. I don't sparkly shoes or bright colors. I black button down and white tank and black slip-on shoe.
If I had the body I want - and hope to get with my return to the gym - I'd do it all the same. Pretty much. But none of this has stopped so many from feeble attempts to hit me with the "gussie".
-Once Kim got it into her head to "dress up" for the bar. Down town. Where more men are missing teeth than not. She got all excited. Toted make-up bags to work and instructed me to meet her there, in something other than black - and my hair blown dry. I called her frantic from my bathroom.
"I told you this wouldn't work," I said. My hair had felt the heat and cringed. Literally. I looked like an SOS pad. She told me to get my ass to work for her to do damage control. Barbie whipped out her "hot stix". Yes. With an 'X'. And yes. She brought them to work with her. They applied pink, sparkly make-up and pushed at my skin with their fingers. I wanted to harf into a paper bag. My hair was wound so tight, pushed up so far on my head, I looked like I was supposed to be a bad 1986 prom photo. Kim and I tried our best to tame it in the car. Laid outcome: Uh yeah, none.
This same routine was repeated at least half a dozen times. Same outcome on the hair and the laid.
But it doesn't seem to stop them from trying.