"We're always in the
midst of a chase.

Going after a dream...

Chasing a fantasy...

And making it a

This is what I write

Life is about the chase."

~ Rachelle

February 2006 – Archive

Men are visual creatures. I’m aware of this. Just like I’m aware of music playing at Starbucks when I’m writing. In both instances, this awareness hums along slightly below my consciousness — until something jolts it to the forefront. Like today, when the barista cranked the music up two notches higher than usual. Or when, hours later, Gary walked in, looked at me, then did a double-take.

I’d met Gary in December at a singles ‘networking’ function. I’d bought a little black dress for the occasion — my first step in implementing New Year’s Resolution #3: Get in Touch With My Inner-Diva. It was clingy and sexy, yet classy and sophisticated. I felt like Cinderella. And my many Prince Charmings stepped forward to slip me business cards, instead of slippers.

Gary was one of them.

Two weeks later, I attended a party at a friend’s house wearing the same little black dress. Same Cinderella experience, though on a smaller scale. Gary showed up. (Aren’t the odds of running into the same guy, in the same dress, in a person’s house similar to those of finding a $1 million lottery ticket stuck to the bottom of your shoe?!). He pressed another business card into the palm of my hand.

Today, I was sitting at Starbucks, in my working attire — baggy army fatigue-like pants and a shapeless fleece sweatshirt. Glasses. No makeup. Bed-head hair — the matted, lopsided kind. While pondering deep thoughts, such as why, at page 156, my heroine and hero in my erotic romance still had not managed to have sex, I looked up from my computer. And there was Gary, standing between the whole milk and half-and-half canisters.

“Hi,” I mouthed.

He did a double-take before returning my greeting, and then walked over.

I laughed. “Yeah, I know. I look different.”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“I bet if you’d seen me like this — no makeup, glasses, messy hair — you wouldn’t have invited me out to dinner.”

He shook his head. “No. I still would have asked you to dinner. But only if you were wearing that dress. That black dress.”

I didn’t know whether to feel complimented or insulted.

Is that really all it takes? Are men really that … basic? I wish I were bold enough to find out. To not comb my hair. Not shave my armpits. Wear my oldest, most outdated glasses. And don my little black dress.

You really think Prince Charming would be standing by to take me out?


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