I’ve vowed to work on my “edgy” vibe and the perfect opportunity arose yesterday, when I’d run out of laundered jeans. Rather than scar my children for life, I grabbed a pair of my husband’s knit boxers — clean of course. They were black, my t-shirt was long enough to cover the snap, and I was astonished to find the fit rather flattering. Apparently the ToolMaster wasn’t…
Anyway, some time later, Frank awoke and asked me to take him to the book store to purchase Mockingjay.* Now trust me on this: when your reluctant reader of a son asks for a book, you don’t ask a metric tonne of questions. You grab keys and haul ass. You ride the gas pedal. Only when your parking at the mall does it occur to you that you’re wearing your husband’s underwear and will have to traverse the food court which happens to be filled with people. The ones who cherish some hope of eating…
Eh, so what, I thought. Other women do this all the time. True, they’re generally eighteen, have perfect breasts and a matching tank top in which to display them, but this’ll be good for me. I’ll practice my strut.
And it was great. I worked that mall. I flipped my hair. I did it so convincingly that when people looked at me, it was because of my horribly wrenched neck and the subsequent moaning, but not because of the underpants.
So fine, you’d think I’d be happy with my progress and know to leave well enough alone, but then I came home to a bunch of cyberfriends having a collectively bad day. Since they had legitimate reasons, all I could offer were hugs and the gift of perspective. It was time to unleash The Picture.
I’ve seen this image used before by one Gretchen McNeil. In her hands, it transformed a tense situation into a collegial one, and sobbing people become euphoric. True, Gretchen might be an opera singer, circus clown and sexay momma who could charm the fur from a ravening weasel, but I had boxers and these people were desperate.
You guessed it. Epic fail. The global response was an Ewwwwwww! and then mass defection from the board. Not a single “tee-hee” before they left, either. So clearly I do not possess the panache gene, I do not. What’s more, I don’t even know how to clone one.
How does she do it, peeps? What mysterious power allows some people to carry off borderline behavior and we’re charmed, whereas in other cases — mine — we’re repulsed? I don’t know the answer, but I yearn to be one of those so anointed.
Could you do it? Should I be jealous of you?
*Don’t give anything away, but is it fantastic? I’ll be the third in this house to read it, so please feel free to squee in a non-spoilerish way.