Sunday, December 17, 2006

spots sugarbaker...

You were probably at a holiday party last night, right? Yeah, everyone was. Initially I planned to hop, having five highly worthy events to attend, but in the end, committed to just one: Jenny’s graduation party at her parents in the Marina.
After mingling with family friends, eating and drinking as much free food and booze as possible, the kids headed to Delaney’s. There’s nothing so sobering as sitting in on a bench, surrounded by people that voluntarily hang out in the Marina and having your cousin knock an entire table full of drinks onto you. The sound of broken glass alone was enough to make me call it a night.
At 1:30, I walked alone the 5 or 6 blocks back to my car. I should point out that I was sporting a fabulous new look, consisting of head-to-toe black with a huge, shiny red belt smack dab in the middle. It garnered an array of opinions, from “Are you taking karate?” to “You look like a ninja.”
I won’t be swayed by unfashionable 23 year old boys. I thought it was a fabulous look. So fabulous, I refused to wear my coat back to my car, carrying it as far away as possible so as to highlight my super hot belt. A block into my journey, my heels were killing me.
No problem.
Shoes off.
So here I was, at 1:30 in the morning in the middle of the Marina, freezing my ass off walking past Jetta after Jetta in my stocking feet.
And seriously. I still thought I looked hardcore fashion forward. I was just waiting for someone to come by and appreciate the fact that I stepped it up a notch. With perfect timing, three Marina men approached in the opposite direction.
A ha! If there is any justice in this world, one of them will applaud my sartorial genius. My heels in one hand, my coat in the other, I looked up and smiled.
The middle one looked straight at me and said, “Dude, she looks like the pope.”
And then they all laughed.
At me.
Um, oh my god.
Normally, I’d be mortified. Normally, I’d run to my car and hide. Normally, I’d never speak of this again.
But these were Marina assholes, wearing Euro-jeans and striped dress shirts. It was 1:30 in the morning. And I was barefoot.
I stopped dead in my tracks directly in front of them.
“Fuck. You.”
It was as if no one had said this to them in their entire lives. They were frozen, unsure of how to proceed. Delighted, I took advantage of my sudden courage. “I am a woman walking barefoot and alone in the middle of the night. What on earth would possess you to be rude to me?”
And then I waited. I stared at them. They stared at me.
Finally, the one on the right spoke. “You’re right. That was fucked up.” He looked at asshole in the middle, who then nervously giggled.
“I was kidding. Relax.”
I pulled my keys from my clutch and sighed. “There is something to said for a little class, gentlemen. And there’s something to be said for fabulous accessories. I suggest you familiarize yourselves with both.”
Holy shit.
I can’t believe I just said that. It was like, the most awesome moment of my life. I am totally Julia Sugarbaker. I didn’t even think about it. It just came out.
But the moment was lost on them, and no one worthy was there to hear it. They quickly walked on looking uncomfortable and confused and I continued to stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Still barefoot. Still freezing. Looking like the pope…

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

This unfashionable 22 year old thinks it's a good look.

sfmike said...

Way to go, Ninja Pope. Now that's a character I want to see on the TV, karate-kicking righteousness into Sinners and Rude Marina Boys alike.