Monday, 27 May 2013


For starters, dress like a slob and don't wear 
any makeup. Note the large double-double 
splattered down the front of my shapeless
 sweatshirt, note the frizzed hair, note the 
splat of mustard on my cheek. (The tongue. 
I'm licking it. You thought I was just 
trying to be sexy, didn't you?)

Something happened to me over the weekend that  forced me to review one of the most painful girl-lessons a woman ever learns. (Don't worry, guys, it has nothing to do with white pants and leaky maxi pads; that's nothing compared to the humiliation this girl-lesson entails.)  And that lesson is this: NEVER go out in public looking like shit, because that, guaranteed, is when you will run into A) the hottest guy in town B) your boss or C) your ex.

So I had just finished a workout at the gym, bought a large Timmies, spilled it all over myself because of course the coffee intuitively knew that I was wearing white, and then I looked at the time and realized I'd better make a quick dart into the LCBO for a bottle of wine. I grabbed my favourite shiraz, I headed to the checkout and BAM!!!

Hot guy, directly ahead of me in the checkout line, in biceps-hugging T-shirt and jeans, his arm around a very attractive woman's shoulders. Then I caught his profile and was aghast. "Ack, it's name redacted, that hot idiot I dated briefly," I thought. "OMIGOD I CANNOT LET HIM SEE ME LIKE THIS!!!!!"
Because honestly, you guys. I looked like shit. I know it sounds laughable, that a creature of such statuesque goddessism could ever look like shit. Oh but I did. Allow me to conjure up the disturbing mental image: 
Hair: Wild, frizzy, kind of crazy-lady if you must know
Face: Sweaty and naked
Clothes: Coffee-stained. Barely even matching. (Laundry day)
Body odour: Probably

So when this dude started to turn around I flat-out panicked.
Because no woman wants to be the one the ex looks at and thinks: "Holy fuck, LOOK at her! Is that even the same broad or is it her fatter older spinster aunt?"

When a woman runs into her ex, it doesn't matter whether she still loves him or despises the fungus-infested ground his pig hooves walk on, she wants to look good. Damn good. She wants him to feel regret. Longing. Maybe even grovel a little.
So I'm not kidding when I say instinct kicked in and I literally walked backwards and hid in the next aisle. 
After a few seconds of fake browsing, I peeked over the shelf: nope, still there.
Walked to the next aisle, pretended to be keenly interested in the scotch, peeked: Dammit! Still there.
A staffer eyed me suspiciously, no doubt picking up on my furtive, shoplifter-like demeanor. 

"Can I help you, ma'am?"
"Yes, you can throw a big fucking bag over my whole head and body and spirit me out the back door!" I whispered hoarsely.
"I beg your pardon?"
"No thanks, I'm good."
Finally, the ex and his supermodel girlfriend paid and left.
I have never known such relief.
I went straight home and changed out of my coffee-splattered rags, showered, fixed my hair and put on makeup. Because goddamit, I have a lot of exes ... and I still had groceries to do.