So, I was happily going along, all radio silence plus, when I had a very interesting encounter this morning on my way to work. It aligns nicely with another very interesting encounter, which happened in exactly the same spot (give or take 10 feet) about 2 months ago.
Let's begin there: I was walking to work in the summer, wilting away and certainly looking neither my slimmest nor most well-put together, when some twenty-something guy, walking in my direction, moved toward me to ask a question.
I assumed he wanted to know where College St. was but, when I stopped to hear him out, he gave my quite a shock by advising me, in some mellifluous Eastern Euro lilt - and with a surfeit of confidence - that, in his opinion, I had the most gorgeous body he had ever seen.
I smiled gamely. I mean, I'm 40. I do enjoy hearing anyone say my body is the best thing ever, despite the objective untruthfulness of that statement. I said thanks and started to walk on.
At that point he moved closer to me - not entirely where I was going with our discussion - and confided (no freakin' joke) that he was looking for a lover and he could tell I'd be an optimal candidate. At which point - FOR REAL - he pulled out his business card.
Thankfully, I hadn't forgotten my wedding band that day, and proceeded to advise - as I walked forward - that my husband would likely object. He expressed utter misery at this revelation, telling me the world was cruel (or some such thing) and that was that. Note to reader: I do wish I'd taken the card, just for posterity.
OK, then this morning, in the same place, I watched a couple stagger down the street. They weren't exactly staggering but they'd obviously had a rough night and they ambled broadly in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was all in leather. Her hair was hanging in precariously, despite the bleach, and she wore the shortest skirt ever, set off by ripped fishnets.
I'd like to clarify that the neighbourhood in which I was walking is not a dicey one. It is urban, natch, but the houses go for almost a million bucks (not unusual in downtown TO, but certainly not the sign of a slum) and it's quietly residential. As such, this couple was slightly stand out. Of course, TO is a very "free to be you and me" kind of town. But they seemed to have come from a rave on Queen West. Or some house of ill-repute, perhaps.
As they passed, the woman tapped me on the shoulder and said: Really great boots, honey. I realize that the boots - rather ordinary flat black things - must have been scandalously offset by my new jeans (exact replacement of my 1969 Always Skinnys, the zipper of which recently broke. That's it's own story, oy. In brief, in regular jeans I'm a 29. In Gap jeans I'm a 27. I just replaced the exact style and size of the broken jeans and the new ones are SO tight it's horrid. I mean, I get a yeast infection just thinking about them and they barely fit around my - admittedly scrawny - calves. I know the dye needs to stretch in the weave. I know I might be fatter, but still...)
Anyway, I'm starting to wonder if I need a style overhaul. Or a new route.