Black leather boots and bustiers. Fishnet stockings, DayGlo orange wigs and more tattoos and eyeliner than Amy Winehouse at a biker rally, it was an unlikely getup for a couple of angels. Yet for all its sexy outrageousness, the Jagermeister shooter girls managed to look innocently adorable.We were sitting at the bar waiting for our table to open up in the dining room. Turk had talked me into going out to dinner in spite of my reluctance ~ frankly, I am not at all happy with the creeping frumpiness of my appearance. I just want to stay home and hide.
I know. I should be bigger than this. I'm not. I shouldn't care, but I do. I'm supposed to love myself and embrace the older, wiser, more beautiful goddess within. I really can't.
I am, if anything, annoyed with her. It was never my intention to live long enough to look this old in the first place. While all my friends were busy becoming doctors, lawyers and engineers I was working on my 10 year plan to live hard, die young and leave a beautiful corpse. Typically, in this, as in so many things, I failed to apply myself and wound up here, in a nondescript middle age, dealing with this frumpiness, this encroaching Elmer Fuddliness. Fat, furrowed and befuddled am I.
The girls came up to give their pitch regarding the exemplary qualities of Jagermeister. They laughed good-naturedly when Turk, clearly dazzled by such bodacious attention, claimed to be a German prince in exile, pining away for Jager, the milk of his youth. They were really very sweet. Then, leaving us with a smile and the gift of an orange paper-flower lei, they were moving on toward the next customer when suddenly they turned back and one girl exclaimed, "We just have to tell you how pretty you are!" Her friend nodded, beaming.
And so help me Aphrodite, just for a while I felt lighter.
See what I mean? Angels.
My angels carry shot glasses. Like I always knew they would.
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