The Power Of Pretty-Part 2

The girl was over 6 ft. tall, though whether it was the 5 in. heels she was wearing or the long, wild, streaked, "just F'd" hair that contributed more to her height, I couldn't say.

The girl wasn't wearing anything particularly revealing: tight jeans, but not so tight you'd wonder about her ability to breath, and a black animal print halter. No, it was the over all effect; the hair, lots of makeup, the heels, just that slight whiff of "dirty girl" that rendered every male in the gas station this afternoon speechless.

Her new, black, Jeep was on the other side of the pump island and we both had to go into the station. She was ahead of me and I had the opportunity to notice both the girl and the effect she had on the men. Her walk was quick, the heels clicking on the cement, her head down, surrounded by a curtain of hair. I recognized the walk, it said: "notice me, but I'm not going to notice you".

I recognized that walk because it was exactly my walk in my twenties. It's the walk of a girl who knows she has the power of pretty but clearly doesn't know what to do with it or what it can do to you. It's the walk of a girl who constructed her appearance to be noticed because she's looking for something, but she's unclear what that something is.

As she began to pump her gas she made eye contact with me and gave me a little half smile.

I know I was the only person in that station she made eye contact with. I was no threat to her. I'm not that girl anymore.

Sunday Scribblings: Powerful, The Power of Pretty

The other day it was time to take the car for an oil change, so down to the local Jiffy Lube I go.

As anyone knows, taking the car to have any type of mechanical work done is a pretty casual affair and I was dressed appropriately. Once arriving at Jiffy Lube I pulled my car into the bay; a young man approached, informed me that it would be about 25 minutes and invited me to have a seat in the waiting room.

When I entered the waiting room, there were three other patrons already present: another woman probably in her late thirties who appeared as if she were on her way to work, a man reading the paper, and a young woman, in her early twenties, with long blond hair and a skirt that was probably a foot long - seriously.

I took a seat and began to read the book that I'd brought, "Oh The Places You'll Go" by Dr. Seuss. I am at an age where I can feel rebellious enough to read a Dr. Seuss book with no child in sight. I was happily reading when my peripheral vision detected movement to my left, I angled my head so that I could actually see what the movement was: the young woman tugging at her skirt.

I can remember wearing skirts that were short enough to "take your picture" as my mother would have said, and I smiled inwardly. The young woman rose to walk to the trash can and deposit her coffee cup, a movement that required tugging of the skirt upon rising and prior to sitting. Gracious! I thought, just like some one's grandmother, what is the point if you have to do that much work to keep the thing in place? You could get another, longer, short skirt that wouldn't put you in danger of catching the flu in your nether regions and still look cute.

Because really isn't that what it's about, especially at that age? The desire to look cute, be hot, the power of pretty? The idea that when you stand up, someone is going to be looking at you and maybe for that moment at least, you're special?

One of the technicians came to the door and asked, "who owns the Toyota?" The man arose and went with the technician into the work area. This is how they decipher one car owner from the next eh? Well I guess that's a good system since they don't take info from you when you arrive. I resumed reading my book.

"Amanda?" I looked up as the blond arose, tugged and went into the work area. It was all I could do not to laugh because I'd look like an asylum escapee. The power of pretty and a really short skirt had given that girl an identity. No other name in that room was known.

As I wrote earlier, I can remember wearing those skirts short enough to "take your picture" but I am no longer a photographer. I don't want to be rearranging my clothing all the time.

I'm not that girl anymore.


This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings