Crawling around on the hairy underbelly of the Internet were some rather interesting characters. No one I wanted to get to know too well, but there’s the upside. On the web, nobody needs a rabies shot. I was just there to monitor the class, or lack thereof.
It was late. It was always late. I’m not making excuses, but things happen. I was traversing part of that vast waistland of girlie diets and pipe-dream he-man hubbies, looking for the key to finer abs and learning how to meet Mr. Right in the liquor aisle, when I bumped square into a "famed pyscho sexual." "Increase Your Sex Appeal," the title teased, followed by a photo I assumed was the "before" shot. Turtleneck, short, blahnde hair, blander smile –basically someone’s mom in dire need of a makeover before making out.
Nooo – it was a headshot of our sex hostess, ever ready to offer tips on how to be irresistible to men. The whiplash of the soccer mom’s wan smirk poised next to the words "Sex Appeal" made me more likely to ask her for advice on how to be psycho than sexy. Nutso, I suspected, was one topic for which she was certified. I clicked on her double chin, following the link to where her bio should have been. But it morphed into another "sexpert’s" headshot – this one vertically stretched to make the vamp in it appear thinner. "Lou" could have been the "after" shot in the voyage to Kamp Kissy, but only if it were a transsexual horror flick.
By now I had to take her quiz, "How Sexy Are You?", so off I went. After passing with flying colors, I couldn’t resist checking out what advice the losers needed to bone up on. One of the first things she mentioned is to take a good look in the mirror. Golly. Did you know you could hire this person to advise you, pay her real cash to be told gems like this? Her second nugget was to learn to love yourself. I’m guessing she has personal experience on this one, and that’s as far as I want to go down that cul-de-sac.
Wardrobe was next – find clothes that make you feel "sexy yet sober." Judging from the photo example, this meant a turtleneck paired with a "come wither" look. Mirror, mirror, on the walleye - the only turtleneck I recall in the Playboy mansion belongs to Hugh Hefner. I guess once you hit eighty, the skin on your neck just naturally surrenders to gravity, so he’s got an excuse. But what’s hers? We’re then told to wear clothes that feel good – guess I’ll have to toss that straitjacket in the trash. A shame, too, since it’s such a great color on me.
Granted, I’m glad she didn’t post some silicone bimbo shot – there’s obviously more to sexy than that. But I’m paying nearly twenty bucks a month to surf the Internet, so I deserve a decent bang for my buck. Is that too much to ask? It’s not even the money – isn’t my time worth more?
Perhaps not. I was home alone, dateless, on a Saturday night, unwilling to pay extra for a digital line. The epitome of pathetic, and desperately needing to learn how not to let that happen again. Mrs. "Sexpert" Turtleneck promised to change all that, and I bit, only to find she was using phony bait. I even suspected she posted really feeble tidbits just on Saturday nights for the superlosers. Whether that was generous or cruel, I hadn’t a clue.
So that’s it? There’s no secret, magic way to that happily-ever-afterglow? To admit that whopper meant giving up hope, giving up the dream that someone would someday sweep me off my feet, even if he threw his back out in the process. I wasn’t that dismal yet.
Maybe I had been a little hard on Mrs. Turtleneck. After all, she was published, someone had to think she was worth paying to post. And here I was, a jealous imp, picking on her stuff. Did I need to lower my standards, both on men and mentors?
Friday, July 16, 2004
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
