And sometimes, vanity gets the best of us and we have a power shower before leaving the house and of course, based on this alone, don't end up seeing anybody we know.
But then there's those times, that against all better judgement, we think, "Oh, it'll be fine! I'm only running to the shops for five minutes." And in doing so, tempt the Gods to embarrass us by any means possible. And that usually involves inevitably running into the last person on earth you want to see looking the way you do.
On Monday, the Gods made a fool of me in exactly this fashion.
With the winter weather being as chilly as it is, I was kicking around the house in my favourite pair of 10-year-old tracky dacks with my greasy hair slicked back into a pony tail - I was looking about as dapper as a drug addict. When Sister Dearest suggested we should do a load of groceries, I thought perhaps I should change. But the trackies were just too comfortable to replace with a pair of arse/thigh/calve-contriscting jeans, so on went a pair of pluggers and out the door we skipped.
It took about 60 seconds from the time I parked the car and walked into Coles before the inevitable happened. There, standing in the middle of the fruit and vege buying a Perssimon, was the Hot Dish Pig.
Who is the Hot Dish Pig I hear you ask?
Hot Dish Pig is the glass collector (also known as, a glassie) who works at my local pub and without fail, is there collecting glasses like his life depends on it EVERY TIME I pay the pub a visit. And he looks looks like a sex god.
Because I don't know his name, nor anything else about him, he has been christened the Hot Dish Pig (I realise that a dish pig and a glassie aren't the same thing, but it was the first thing I came up with when I saw him and it's sort of stuck since then). Anyway, I think he is nothing short of gorgeous. I also like to think that working as a glassie isn't his only vocation - that really he's a struggling muso/artist/writer that is looking for a muse who looks exactly like I do. But for now, the fact that he can carry 20 glasses at a time is the only thing I know about him.
I probably don't need to point this out, but we've never spoken. Ever.
Anyway, so there in the fruit and vege buying a Persimmon was the Hot Dish Pig. (I don't know if it was actually a Pesimmon he was buying. I'd like to think it was a Pesimmon. I'd like to think that an interest in exotic fruits from Japan is one of Hot Dish Pig's special traits. It's what I love most about him). And there standing across from him with her jaw dragging along the ground and her cheeks burning an attractive shade of red, wearing tracky dacks and a hair slick, was me - looking like a true Surry Hills local.
So what did I do? I made an emergency phone call to Bestie to tell her what had happened and spent the next 10 minutes trying to stalk him in Coles without him seeing me or recognising me as 'that girl' from the pub who makes shameless sex eyes in his direction when I've had a few too many beers on a Friday Night.
Unfortunately and not surprisingly, this story doesn't tie up nice and neatly like some some kind of sickening rom-com. We didn't reach for the same tin of creamed corn and he didn't offer me the last loaf of bread which went on to be the beginning of a beautiful happy ever after. Why? Because I looked positively feral? Afraid not. I'm guessing that it has something to do with the fact that I was so embarrassed at being caught looking like myself that I made a conscious effort not to make so much as a breach of eye contact with him.
When I berated about it later to Bestie, arguing that this could have been THE moment had I not looked like ass, she brought up a good point. If you only ever run into people you're interested in when you're looking like you crawled out of a drain, isn't that a good enough reason to look terrible all the time? Because if you spent hours primping and preening and ensuring you're not one stray eyebrow hair away from perfection, it practically insures you'll never accidently run into anybody you like. I could have changed into a pair of jeans when I was going to, but then Murphy's Law would have made sure Hot Dish Pig didn't decide to do his shopping at the same time as me and I wouldn't have seen him at all. And been reminded how divine I think he is. And how much I should just pluck up the courage and ask him his name.
Murphy, the Gods or The God - whoever you think is behind the controls of our romantic destiny - sure has one sick sense of humour.
Ciao for now. xo
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