I've Still Got It

It was like sitting in a haiku. Cherry blossoms swirled through an azure sky.  I flicked a flower off my book and continued to read under the shade of a tree. It was the first truly warm day of the year, and I enjoyed the shiver of coconut ice cream melting on my tongue. I wasn't the only one, the park teemed with awestruck office workers scrunching their toes in the grass, tossing frisbees, and slurping milkshakes.

Four men sat at a table eight feet away in front of me. They were the young professional type: blue shirts, shiny ties, just enough hair product. I pegged them as defense contractors or government consultants, people who couldn't explain their jobs without using terms like “facilitate” or “enhance.” They had the nerve to sit directly in my staring spot so I took revenge by nicknaming each of them. Calvin Klein, Immaculately Trimmed Beard Guy, Hipster Glasses, and Señor Sweatervest unwrapped their burritos and discussed the unseasonably warm weather.

They weren't loud, but they were too close for comfort, it took effort to tune them out. I shoved the rest of the world out of my consciousness and concentrated on my book. I focused so intently that at first I didn't notice that the four men were whispering and glancing in my direction. Immaculately Trimmed Beard Guy leaned forward and seemed to be asking his friends for advice and Hipster Glasses pointed right at me. I mentally checked my appearance and determined that I had nothing stuck in my teeth, a bird had not pooped on me, and there was not a giant spider in my hair (it's happened before.)

As a matter of fact, I looked good. You'll have to take my word for it, but I've been told that I look like I could be Nicole Kidman's daughter. Once an elderly one eyed woman clasped my arm wouldn't let go until I agreed that I did indeed look like the sultry star from Moulin Rouge.

Nevermind that I've been told countless times that I look like “that scary girl from The Village.” I choose to believe the senile, half blind woman.

My point is that men had tried to pick me up before—not often—but often enough and awkwardly enough that I didn't care for it. Still, Immaculately Trimmed Beard Guy didn't look like a creeper. He had the perfect ratio of non-threatening courtesy to confidence as he sauntered towards me. I allowed myself to feel flattered that a decent looking guy had the guts to approach me.

He stopped in front of me and I realized with a start that not a single stranger had flirted with me since I got married three years earlier. I quickly assured myself that it was because I wore a ring, not because I'd grown less attractive. With my ego on the line I flashed him my best smile. I decided to let the man properly introduce himself before giving him my kindest rejection line “I'm very flattered and very married.” I might even throw in a gracious laugh and a hair toss.

The man cleared his throat and shuffled his feet nervously. “Excuse me miss.”

“Yes?” Our eyes met.

“The mulch is on fire.”

I'd never heard that line before. I took a moment to process his words.

“Oh.” I jumped up “Oh!” White smoke wafted from a burning cigarette butt and the smoldering wood chips. The damp soil kept it from catching properly, but it fumed enough that half the park stared at it. At me.

“I'm surprised you didn't notice it.” He walked behind my bench and stamped out the cigarette, moving carefully so he didn't scuff his brown leather shoes.

“Yeah,” I answered eloquently. Gone were my winning smiles and charming dialogue. Gone were my delusions of Nicole Kidman. I wasn't a desirable young woman. I was a boring married lady--only twenty three and already too old for anyone to notice me. Worse, I was the ditz who didn't notice a fire burning inches away from her chair.

Not only was my attractiveness in question, but my survival instincts were clearly substandard. I was the slow antelope in the herd. I was a white moth hiding on a brown tree. I was a shark with a fish allergy. Feeling old and ugly paled in comparison to the realization that I wouldn’t live to see forty--I’d likely kill myself in a  vegetable-related knife accident first.

Immaculate Beard Guy rejoined his friends and I looked at my phone in an exaggerated pantomime of “Oh my, is that the time? I’m terribly late, I must leave immediately!” I gathered my book and my melted ice cream and then beat a hasty retreat.

I left my pride in that park, but it’s alright. I found it shortly afterwards when I looked in the full length bathroom mirror. I checked to make sure that there was no one in the stalls. Then I struck a pose, one hand on my hip. I wasn’t skinny, I still had acne, my hair was flat and limp--but when I smiled I was gorgeous. “Yeah,” I told myself, “I’ve still got it.”