I’m currently house-sitting at Judy’s stunning Sausalito estate, spending time with my favorite dog Emma. This morning, I got dressed for work, grabbed the leash, and took Emma out for our morning stroll. I’m pretty dressed up for work today, and if I may say so, am looking quite fabulous.
As Emma and I walked past mansions and luxury vehicles, overlooking the sparkling Bay below us, I caught a glimpse of us in the window of a Cayenne. With my huge Euro sunglasses and pure bred dog, I could have walked right out of a magazine. I was really getting a kick out of myself, strutting through Sausalito imagining my own personal soundtrack and breaking into the supermodel runway walk.
Occasionally, a fellow dog walker or jogger would pass, and I’d do the obligatory nod and good morning, fully aware that they were thinking to themselves, “Damn, this girl is fabulous at 8am. How on earth does she do it?”
Normally, I walk Emma in sweats and windbreakers, make up-less and hideous. That’s when I’ll inevitably run into cute boys I know or old friends of my parents, shocked at how ugly I’ve become. On mornings like this, I knew I was destined to walk Emma alone, my gorgeousness continually missed by the millions I was so desperate to see me. Or was I?
Suddenly, from around the corner, jogs the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life. I mean, seriously. This guy was a god, clad in designer running duds with a flawless tan. He looks up at me, catches a glimpse of my obvious marvelousness, slows down, smiles and says hello.
I smile and say, “Good Morning.” But for whatever reason, I didn’t use my normal voice. So caught up in the moment, I created a voice which can only be described as a cross between a phone sex worker and Kathleen Turner, with a hint of British accent and impending orgasm. It sounded ridiculous, like a dog sitter who thought she was far more fabulous than she actually was. Stunning man immediately laughed- out loud and at me- and then ran on, without asking for my number, without inviting me to dinner at Poggio, without mentioning how fucking incredible I looked.
Even Emma was embarrassed for me, humiliated by our encounter with what could have been my future husband. We walked on in silence, the imaginary soundtrack gone, my walk a little more humble. It seems that no matter how great I think I look, how charming I happen to find myself, I will always, always, always fuck it up by opening my mouth…