Old Lady with a Push-Up Braw

                          An Old Lady and a Push-up Braw

        Alright, to keep it short and dry, you need to get a life- desperately. All you do is sit around your small ass excuse for an apartment and read little short stories. That’s fine and dandy, but now you’re taking it too far; you’re in the food court of the local mall reading a short. Whatever, you know that short stories (erotic ones are your favorite, admit it) do not give you entertainment. Your little book of shorts is your way of hiding from that hot Italian guy looking at you from his table. This is why you came to the mall, isn’t it? Hot guys everywhere and you’re supposed to be ready to attack them at any moment. No, not that guy… that one- the one who has the chick with bad highlights sitting across from him. He doesn’t like her, you can tell. Look at his hair, you bet he has a personal stylist, or he’s gay. (Hopefully, he just has a gay stylist.) Oh look, the girl with the bad highlights is getting up, this is your shot. He’s staring a freaking hole in you- you think? Get him, and fast. Oh God, some rail-thin chick is ambushing the flank on the right. You better start your approach now; she’s not slowing-up! Oh, for the love of God if that skinny heifer makes it to him first you’re going to mad as hell and you know it.

        What is wrong with you, why are you still sitting? Put the book down! I know what it is; it’s that date you had with that guy last week, isn’t it? Honey, all women meet jerks like him. Think of it in a positive way, he only had seven fingers, you have ten. Sorry, it was just a little joke to get you out of that freaking book. You have to get over him, woman. You have to get over him and your ex. You don’t want to and that’s perfectly fine for the first month or two, but two years? Alright, well you were married, so a year is granted for downtime. But two, Honey, no- it’s not even cute anymore.
         
        You’re going in for the kill, you say? Thatta’ girl, that’s what I’m talking about! Alright, the skinny chick must have fainted because her position is not clocking in right now- her peppermint from yesterday must have given out, she’ll be back running any minute, time is precious. It doesn’t look like he’s done with his Subway yet. You start the check list and prepare for your approach. Check the hair- it’s still big and brown, it’s still 1982- perfect. Check to make sure your Push-Up braw straps aren’t showing- they aren’t- good. Check you’re teeth for unidentified food objects- check. Pout the lips- check. Shoulder back- check. All clear! You’re nervous because you haven’t done this in so long and you can’t believe that you’re doing it now, but you’re not backing down. You fluff your hair one last time and you're off. You start to strut toward the sexy Italian guy sitting at the table. You’re about ten feet from him. Don’t look at him, you have to act like you’re not interested, but still look interested. You know? Look at the big orange burger on the Burger King sign. Keep your chin up. You stick out your chest, it’s not much there, but it’s something. If all he wants is big breast then he’s not the man for you. You read that in a magazine the other day and it’s a life vowel all of a sudden. You’re about two feet from conversation distance and five feet from the sexy Italian guy. You slow up and hope he notices. You glance down at him. You slow down a little bit more. Still slowing…basically motionless. You’re starting to look stupid walking so freaking slow. You’re standing still, but you’re doing this swaying thing to make it look like you’re still moving in front of him and he’s not saying anything.

CODE 4! CODE 4!

      He’s not taking notice of you and it’s time for you to make a move. Normally, you’d abort the mission, but this one is just too cute to pass up. You can see the rail-thin chick moving again, she’s not moving as fast, but she’s picking up pace. Who in the hell gave her another peppermint?

         “Can I help you?” He asks.

         You pretend not to hear him, play with your hair a little bit, and you keep looking around. You’re standing right in front of him and you’ve got your favorite jeans on, it cuffs your butt just right. You smile at the rail-thin chick as she watches you in action. She’s jealous and pissed, but she’ll get over it. This one is yours. Just like when you were younger. Okay, maybe not like when you were younger (thanks to your retainer), more like when you met your ex… ex-husband that is.
         
      “Can I help you, ma’am?”

        No the hell he did not just go there. Did he really just call you ma’am? Do you look like a ma’am? Didn’t think so. You are only thirty-sev… twenty-seven and this sexy Italian boy just called you ma’am.

         “Oh, I’m so sorry,” you giggle cutely, “I was just walking and not paying attention to where I was going.” You fluff your hair again and give big smile.

         You can’t believe this boy just called you ma’am! You don’t walk away from standing in front of him instantly. You wait there for a moment. You see the rail-thin chick and you wish she would have gotten to him before you did.
         
        You know that you don’t look like you did some seven- let’s be frank- seventeen years ago. But you look good. You do your crunches every night to keep the lady pooch away. You run a few miles a week. You’ve got your Push-Up on and the “ladies” are working wonders. You even bought some anti-aging cream for safe measure. Why in the hell did he just call you ma’am? Maybe, all the hot guys have some old woman detectors in their heads, you think. You remember that you’re standing in the middle of a food court and you started to come back to reality, but you take another moment. 

        Plus, he wasn’t all that young himself; he had to have been in his thirties too! You tell yourself this to make yourself feel better because you know that that boy was no older that twenty-five. What were you thinking in the first place? Then you look at all the teenagers walking around you and you notice that you’ve been trying to blend in with them and their perfect skin ever since you divorced your husband. You know that you can always call him for comfort, but you’re not. Plus you know that that woman, Carolyn, will pick up the phone before he does. 

        You finally leave that spot and you retreat back to your chair. You know that he notices that you wanted him to notice you, but you don’t really care. You finally figure out why you brought your book to the mall, because you’re so freaking lonely at home. You dealt with the silence for two years and now you need some noise. You pick your book back up and keep reading your story, the erotic one. Then you stop and think, “I want my money back from that anti-aging cream mess" that you bought from the beauty store an hour ago. You get up and walk fast for your refund. You leave your book behind and you move the hell on.