Cecelia
I stare at myself in the mirror for the millionth time as I wash my hands, relishing the warm tap water and soft melody of electric saxophone that’s being piped into the bathroom.
Which, normally I wouldn’t - because seriously, who enjoys electric saxophone?
Besides my parents.
And Kenny G (and to spare you from having to Google him, I’ll give you the Wikipedia definition: Kenny G was a famous electric sax player in the 90’s. Chicks totally dug him).
I finish rinsing my hands and grab few pieces of brown paper towel, blotting my hands dry. Leaning forward, I push a few strands of hair away from my face, purse my lips in the process before digging into my thin clutch for the lip gloss Molly shoved in it earlier (NARS gloss in Turkish Delight in case you’re wondering – it’s awesome).
I’m not wearing anything overtly sexy - in fact, I’m almost all covered up. But as I gaze at myself, I blush a little at my own reflection because I look like myself, only a thousand times better.
Molly did my make-up – I have a full on, smoky eye, and I’m highlighted and contoured within the inch of my life.
Nude, glossy lips.
Abby, bless her soul, loaned me the top she just wore to her sister’s wedding in the Bahamas; a stupidly expensive nude colored Diane Von Furstenberg halter-neck tank top. The shirt is sheer and softly drapes in small pleats down the middle, wraps to tie around my neck in back with a small, elegant, beige satin bow.
Understated.
Sexy.
I’m wearing dark Joe’s jeans, and high nude patent leather wedges. Large gold hoop earrings.
My arms are bare – expertly spray tanned to a light golden brown by Jenna, who ironically, is a Biology major and not in school for Cosmetology as one would expect.
I should also mention that in addition to being spray tanned, I’ve also been brushed with a light dusting of edible body glitter. It’s kind of a Jenna’s thing – she and Molly kept going on and on about how fabulous it is, and how guys go wild for it.
At first, I tried to sneak out of the bathroom to get away from them both. I mean – body glitter? On me? I thought they were out of their freaking minds, for several reasons:
Have you seen me lately? Hello! Yoga pants and tee shirts - kind of my thing…
Um, where are girls going these days that a manufacturing company would think we require body glitter? Isn’t that kind of strictly a, er… strip club thing?
Sorry. Just can’t imagine myself walking through the mall, seeing body glitter on a shelf and thinking to myself “Holy crap! Body powder you can eat?! I must own that!” Yeah. No.
Pretty sure if I was the one licking it off, I would choke on it… kind of like how I choke on the powdered sugar at the county fair every time I eat a cream puff. Yeah. Choking: so not a good look for me.
Nonetheless, I seriously couldn’t escape the pair of them. They were way too powerful for me. That Jenna has a crazy strong grip for such a small person… Granted, I did try making a run for it once, and was quickly grabbed by the collar of my button down shirt (the one I wore while they did my hair and makeup) and yanked back down into my seat.
In the end… I look pretty damn incredible.
Satisfied, I grab my clutch and push through the bathroom door, holding it open politely for an older woman who’s on her way in.
Matthew
I will be the first person to admit: bringing Stacy, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. Not only is she clinging to my arm, she hasn’t stopped talking since we walked into the restaurant.
My eyes scan the perimeter, the dimly lit reception area obscuring the view into the main dining room. The hostess, standing behind a small wooden podium, smiles politely as we approach, and asks us how many are in our party.
“Just two,” Stacy promptly replies, running her finger up and down my arm. I curse the fact that I’m wearing short sleeves, and that my biceps are so irresistible to women.
It’s like I’m cursed.
The hostess looks down at the open book on the podium, adjusts the small lamp attached to it, and chews on the end of a yellow number two pencil. She looks up apologetically. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Did I need one?”
“No, but I’m afraid we’re full tonight until…” She looks down again at the book. “7:15. I’m afraid it’s going to be about a forty five to sixty minute wait. Would you like to have a seat at the bar?” She holds up a black buzzer.
Stacy grabs it.
“Um, actually, we have a few friends here. Can we go see if they’re already here and say hi?”