Blind Date

Mazy looked at herself in the mirror.  Girl, what are you doing?  Since her divorce three years ago, she had placed herself on a shelf.  Now, it was time to get back out there.  Never mind that she was on the far side of 60, pulling it pretty hard some might say; she was determined.  So when her much younger colleague suggested she hook up with Mr. Wonderful, a really nice neighbor, who, like Mazy, had divorced and who, she extolled, would be so right for you! Not knowing exactly what her young colleague meant by that, Mazy threw all caution to the wind and agreed. She agreed to the blind date just to show the young millennial that women of a certain age still had the right stuff.  But this morning, as she looked at herself in the mirror she had to give herself a talking to.
 
You’re feeling good about being a woman! You’ve been around longer than God, but you still fill out your C cups!
 
So it was that the ritual of disguise that women had been using ever since Eve offered Adam the apple, telling him it was good for him, began. 
 
First on her list of to-do’s was the requisite spa appointment. She arrived early.  Who arrives late for “instantly transforming their skin to youthful dewiness?” as the salon advertised.  So, she booked the works, facial, manicure, a sugar scrub and bikini waxing.  Who knows? I might get REALLY lucky.
Someone should tell the uninitiated that facials, manicures and sugar scrubs are so yesterday compared to the REALLY revitalizing experience of having your hair follicles ripped out down there. The facial was relaxing until the esthetist reminded her that she really should have come in more often as her blackheads were alarmingly large, but “she was sure she could extract them if she wanted her to do so.”
 
Sure! What’s the sense of getting a facial if you leave with blackheads the size of Montana around your nose?
 
Mazy drove herself home from the spa, with an unbearable stinging in her crotch and her face plastered with red welts.  The esthetist had advised to use cold compresses on both.  There’s an irony for you.  The very part of a woman’s anatomy that she grooms to attract a man are flaming red and screaming at her for subjecting them to this torture.  O my god, Mazy thought. What have I done?
 
By the time the appointed hour of meeting her blind date had arrived, Mazy had wriggled herself into a sophisticated little black number with a not-too-revealing neckline that enhanced her well defined décolletage.   Her Spanx underwear was doing wonders for smoothing out the occasional ripple over her hips and tummy.  The welts on her face were well disguised under the new Boom Sticks she had purchased: “cosmetics for women who want to reveal their genuine beauty with an honest and realistic approach”.  This consisted of a lipstick, blush, eye shadow and bronzer all in one.  (I’ll let you figure that one out.) The final touch was slipping into a pair of 3-inch black pumps.  If you haven’t worn heels in three years, you might as well say these were spike heels. Anyway, no pain. No gain, right? Mazy was as ready as any trussed-up turkey could be to meet her date.   
She didn’t want to make an entrance and figured the best thig to do would be to get there early and watch him approach, the better to gauge his height, breadth and width.  She arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes early and ordered a white wine. Not too alcoholic, right?  Problem is, she didn’t regularly have wine and this glass of chardonnay was making her feel flushed, accentuating the welts on her face.
And then, there he was, all 5 feet of him, and that was his width.  Shaking his clammy hand and looking into his bloodshot eyes, Mazy knew this would be a long evening. Apparently Mister Wonderful had prepared for this evening by getting royally sauced. While she had prepared by getting royally plucked.
As the conversation between them dragged to the point of throwing itself over a cliff, she thought, I waxed my nether regions for this?