A Real Winner

I usually don’t attract winners… with the one exception of my husband. I emit some sort of pheromone, a frequency wave that draws weirdoes to me. Some girls get the men with good looks, humor, and intelligence. I reel in every wacko within a three mile radius.

I squeezed onto the subway with a tidal wave of students just released from school. I hovered and gripped the bar above a crowded bench. I flipped my jacket collar up and nonchalantly swung my hair around in an attempt to look both New York chic and oblivious to the crush of backpacks. **

I glanced downward and unfortunately met the gaze of a man in his mid-forties. He smiled and wiggled his fingers. I nodded with no smile.

“Miss, miss. Psssst.”

I turned toward him.

“I like your hair. It’s pretty.” Then he demonstrated his approval with a sweeping hand gesture.

I do like my hair and tend to believe that it is one of my best assets when cut by a good stylist, but I just ran four blocks in the rain without an umbrella to catch the subway. My hair looked more like a wet dog's fur than a Breck Shampoo ad.

I looked up, suddenly interested in an advertisement that promised a doctoral degree and the opportunity to research cures for cancer for just $10,000. Yeah, I could do that. I could apply, take out a loan, study full time, save the world…

“Miss, miss. Can I have your number?” He pretended to dial and talk on an imaginary phone.

I felt people redirect their gaze and divert their attention to us, to our verbal/nonverbal conversation.

My cheeks reddened as I shook my head “no.”

“But, maybe, we…”

“I’m married,” I said in a flat tone.

“Still, we could…”

I sighed heavily to signal the finality of my answer and express annoyance of having the craziest man in the car pick me. Not the cuter girl to my left or the one with curly hair behind me, but me.

In August, when I first moved here, I would have responded nicely, but I quickly learned that New York men miss dropped hints. They require a direct “yes” or “no” response. Ahem, case-in-point.

The door opened at the 72nd stop. I filed out and trudged up the stairs with slightly lower self-esteem wondering "why me". Why me?


** Upon the recent knowledge of being neighbors with Frances McDormand and Joel Coen, I feel it necessary to look my best at all times with the hope that we casually meet in the neighborhood whereas he decides that I am perfect for the next big role in his upcoming movie. First impressions only happen once.