Sometimes is pays to be nice. Other times it does not.
by Panty Parade / Off Go the Panties
While mingling in a room packed full of good looking strangers, I spotted an attractive blonde wearing a plaid red shirt who was clearly enjoying himself. At the time I was eyeballing him, he was busy flirting with a woman who had some funky horned rimmed glasses, and he decided it was a good idea to try them on. He was right: that combination of geek with suave worked wonders as I tried to peel myself away from their bubble of fun without being noticed. Then I heard him speak, and my mouth dropped. I knew that voice. I knew that man.
Back in the day when I was thinner AND just starting to be adventurous AND dating like there was no tomorrow, Special K and I went out—once. As I recall, it was a pretty good date. We met on a rooftop bar, drank wine, laughed, chatted, and decided to head on over to a second venue. Fuck, I even remember what I wore that night: A silk flapper dress in ivory with grape tights and my fabulous Joan and David camel pumps.
Now, here I was coming into contact with Special K again—and I was feeling frumpy. Wearing all black, I had sequins on my top and tights covering my legs—I didn’t feel particularly hot. I’ve put on nearly twenty pounds over the last two years, and even though some of that weight has gone to my boobs—the other 18 pounds or so have thickened me in less desirable ways.
Despite not being the knock-out I wanted to be, I managed to catch Special K’s eye and he smiled.