Sweaty Paws and Mr. Handsome

Today is the day. Today. Is the day. I’m going to march over and flirt with my future husband.

True, I’ve been saying this every day for the past month, but I swear it’s going to happen today.  No wimping out this time. No siree Bob. I think what I lack is the proper motivation, so I make a deal with myself. No more iced lattes until I’m 80 unless I approach my guy before Pretentious Beret Lady finishes her wheatgrass muffin, or whatever healthy I’m better than you thing she’s consuming with her pinkie extended. Sure, it sounds harsh, but I’m only doing what’s best.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Why are my palms so sweaty? This is ridiculous. What if he tries to shake my hand and it’s all wet and squishy? Talk about a turn off. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First I have to actually open my mouth and say something. It would be weird to go over there and shove my drippy paw in his face without some kind of preamble. And that’s where I’m stuck. Whatever I say has to be perfect… so perfect that he forgoes the handshake and throws me over his shoulder à la Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman just as soon as my words reach his ears.

I glance at him on the couch with his laptop, probably writing the next Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, and notice his t-shirt features a cartoon character known as Mr. Handsome. This could work. When I walk past him on my way to the door, I can smile all seductively and say, “Hi there, Mr. Handsome.” And then I can wink.

Yes. Yes, I like it. Because I’m being flirty and showing that I’m cool.

I practice winking to see if I can do it, but it feels more like an awkward blink instead, and I decide this might be as bad as the sweaty handshake, so I cut it from the program.

Pretentious Beret Lady looks like she has maybe three more bites, but despite my awesome game plan, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Get it together, sister.

I can do this! I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And gosh darn it, people like me.

I wipe the crumbs from my table, drain the rest of what I hope isn’t my last iced latte, and right as Pretentious brings the final bite of muffin to her lips, I stand up.


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