Friday, October 07, 2005
At Heathrow, waiting for my Boston flight, I drink a 250ml glass of Chardonnay and watch citizens of the European Union along with a spattering of 'Other' nationalities (like Americans) canvas the made-in-China duty-free goods. The traveling Americans are starting to dress more European-like I notice but you can still spot them a mile away. It's their teeth that are primarily the give away (compared to the European's tobacco-stained, periodontal-diseased mouth, this is a good and redeeming quality in Americans).
Perhaps sitting alone drinking a glass of wine had given me a Desperate Housewife Aura because the young European man sitting at the table next to mine with his girlfriend/sister/friend(?) gave me the kind of gaze that makes you feel, well, tingly inside....There I said it. I'm forty-something and married, not dead. He was expensively clad (designer blue jeans, white t-shirt, short-cropped hair, nice watch, barber-cut stubbled beard) and clearly in command of knowing what best accentuated his striking good looks. But alas he then did something that made it impossible for me to further affix myself to the sexy bedroom-eyes image he had obviously spent a lot of time and money cultivating. Namely he chose to strike up a conversation with the woman sitting across from him. His insipid C2O innards came spilling out of his mouth with the consequence that I was later forced to switch from the Anna Bloviation's fantasy channel in my head to Jane Fonda in the movie Monster-in-Law on the in-flight screen. The disconnect that occurs between someone's outward projected image and the actual reality inside makes me think that the fashion industry has new markets yet untapped: a Clinique anti-stupidity cream for starters....and perhaps as well an Estee Lauder polish for speech.
Perhaps sitting alone drinking a glass of wine had given me a Desperate Housewife Aura because the young European man sitting at the table next to mine with his girlfriend/sister/friend(?) gave me the kind of gaze that makes you feel, well, tingly inside....There I said it. I'm forty-something and married, not dead. He was expensively clad (designer blue jeans, white t-shirt, short-cropped hair, nice watch, barber-cut stubbled beard) and clearly in command of knowing what best accentuated his striking good looks. But alas he then did something that made it impossible for me to further affix myself to the sexy bedroom-eyes image he had obviously spent a lot of time and money cultivating. Namely he chose to strike up a conversation with the woman sitting across from him. His insipid C2O innards came spilling out of his mouth with the consequence that I was later forced to switch from the Anna Bloviation's fantasy channel in my head to Jane Fonda in the movie Monster-in-Law on the in-flight screen. The disconnect that occurs between someone's outward projected image and the actual reality inside makes me think that the fashion industry has new markets yet untapped: a Clinique anti-stupidity cream for starters....and perhaps as well an Estee Lauder polish for speech.
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