Waiting in the lobby for sport figures isn't my thing. A groupie I'm not, but still, there I was standing around with the hubby, King of the Groupies, as I acted enthused by it all. Really? Not. If there were wet paint somewhere in hell that needed an observer, I'd volunteer for the task. But rather I did my part, feet hurting, back aching, making small talk with hubby and relatives as they (not me) waited for a Yankee to appear. Out of uniform, who'd know who they were? Not me. I barely know them in their stripes or grays. And what would I say if one walked by? "Yo, what's your face, you sucked tonight?" because truly, they sort of did.
But seriously, I'd have a rather difficult time if I were part of the Yankee Stalker Brigade. I suffer from sever shyness - some sort of social disease afflicts my tongue when face to face with a sort of famous celeb. Yes, I do believe they're better than me and would prefer not to be bothered by the likes of me. Me - older woman with sagging right side face, blind left eye and gravitationally challenged boobs and ass. But, even if I were twenty years younger, before the eye explosion, right face atrophy and gravity debacle, I still most likely would have shrunk into the wall, purple petals and all. Unless I just finished a blender of Hickey's Famous Then Margaritas. If that the case my tongue would loosen and I wouldn't feel foolish...
Until the following day when post hangover memories trickle back. Mortification sets in - I couldn't face the world - but another blenderful of HFM's would at least ease my discomfort.
Oh woe is me - subtle shrinking purple petals - wilted by years of drying life. Why must time go by and nothing ever change?