{ 11 03 2009 }

Plan B: My Charming Personality

On my way home from the office, I stopped at a liquor store to replenish my supply of exotic six-dollar wines. As I made my way down the aisle of self-loathing (or “French and Italian wines,” as it is known to most of the population), I spotted a cute guy arranging a display. Although he looked up at me for no more than a moment, it was enough for me to feel that rare but wonderful spark of attraction.

Quickly I ran a self-analysis. Hair: disheveled; face: blemishes and fading make-up; outfit: fat pants, one of the few things in my closet that still fit over my growing thighs, flat shoes; skin; minimal exposed.

SHIT. I did not look hot, not by any stretch of an over-active hornball’s imagination. I’d have to seduce with personality alone.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked as he stood up in front of me.

Tall. White-blonde hair. Dark green eyes. Yes, kindly help me find an orgasm. It’s in my pants.

“Yes,” I said dead-pan, “I’d like the fanciest bottle of wine you have for six dollars.”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter. He pointed to a shelf. “Okay, well personally I like the Australian whites–”

“Nope,” I cut him off. “My ex-boyfriend only drank Australian wines, and now I refuse to buy them on principle.” I flashed him a wink of a smile to let him know I’m not all piss-and-vinegar. I’m tiny ineffectual rays of sunshine too.

He laughed heartily. I ate it up. I didn’t play with my hair or stare seductively into his eyes. I talked to him like I would anyone else. I didn’t even bother bending over to give him an eyeful of my super-sized ass.

After another minute or two of laughter-filled conversation, I made my move.

“So, Mr. Professional Wino–are you single?” I asked.

He bent down to open up another crate of wine. Crap. Is he stalling? Is he about to give me the blow-off? Does it even matter? All I came in here for was a bottle of cheap wine.

“Yes,” he said, making eye contact with me. “I am single.” He paused. “Very single.”

On the outside I remained suave and collected, but on the inside I high-fived myself. Just a little.

“What about you?” he asked. He stopped stocking the shelves and made eye contact again. “Are you single?”

OH HELLS YEAH I AM. NOW TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS.

“Yes I am.”

We grinned at each other like goobers.

We chatted for a few more minutes. I gave him shit about the wines he suggested to me (”$11.99, do you think I’m some sort of rich person?!”), and he volleyed every time. This guy was a solid contender in the humor category. Time to clench it for the win.

“So, if I buy this wine that you keep telling me is soooo awesome,” I said, holding up a bottle of Australian pinot grigio, “and if I don’t like it–”

“–then you can call me and bitch about what a terrible suggestion it was,” he answered for me.

“Great.” We smiled at each other like goobers once again.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. “Here you go. Now please don’t do that whole wait-a-week-so-you-don’t-look-desperate thing that guys do, okay? Call me tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” he said with a grin. “It’s really more my style to wait a month,” he teased.

“Mmm hmm,” I answered, rolling my eyes at him with exaggeration. “All right, I’ve been here for way longer than I intended, and I’ve got my wine, I think I’m going to check out and head home. It was great to meet you, [Dan]. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too,” he answered, all smiles.

As I walked out of the store, I felt nothing but confidence. I am sure this guy is going to call me. So sure that I didn’t even ask for his number. When I got home, I checked myself out in the mirror. Wow. I looked even worse than I thought. New pimple on the chin, shapeless sweater, and a tuft of hair was sticking out on one side. I was riding purely on personality, and I still came out with a win.

Why did this encounter, which lasted no more than ten minutes, go so well? Was it because I didn’t give a fuck if he liked me or not, thus making it easier to be myself? Was it because I had to rely on my personality and humor instead of my tits and legs? Has all forms of contemporary media been lying to me about the importance of looking sexy at all times?

I’m downright flummoxed.

Posted by Over Educated Nympho on Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009, at 9:41 am, and filed under humor, dating, happy little things.

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