Bad Girls
You have all heard that old theory that every woman secretly wants to be involved with a “BAD BOY.” Well, I’m going to expand on this theory. I think that way down deep, almost every woman, at some point in her life, really wants to be a “BAD GIRL.”
You know the type - garish eye shadow, teased big hair, a push-up bra worn under a tight, skimpy top, a flashy mini-skirt, and 5 inch spike heels worn over fishnet tights. A ”BAD GIRL” usually talks tough with a cig hanging out of her mouth, and hits on guys in bars always with a drink in her hand. She dances wildly and frequently utters sexual innuendos and her conversation is peppered with foul language. A “BAD GIRL” is overly confident, afraid of nothing, and lives life in the fast lane.
I have no desire to live every hour of every day of my life this way because I find many of these qualities deplorable, but every once in great while I have thought it would be fun to be a “BAD GIRL” for a day. Soooo I decided to try it.
I applied massive amounts of bright green shadow and silver eyeliner to my eyelids. Unfortunately, gravity seems to have tucked my lids under rolls of collapsed, upper-eye skin - so very little of the look was visible to the casual observer. I had better luck with the teased hair, although I did have to use one of Tom’s brown socks as a support structure. The push-up bra pushed and pushed, but my “girls” love their present location down around my waist. The skimpy top seemed to accentuate my tummy rolls and the mini skirt kept riding up and revealing my old-lady underpants. Spike heels are out of the question - I fell twice walking out of the bathroom. My orthopedic loafers worked just fine. The fishnet tights really irritated the skin on my thighs. I don’t know how those fish can stand it.
I can’t smoke because of Perpetua, so I substituted one of those short golf pencils for the cig. After several attempts I was actually able to talk with the pencil hanging out of my mouth. Tom was working late so I was free to hit the bar about two miles from our house - THE 929 TAP. When I arrived, I ordered a drink, put my pencil in my mouth, and settled onto a bar stool next to a gentleman in his seventies. I figured I’d start old and work my way down to the younger guys. I looked at him, batted my eyelashes a few times, and said, “Hey sailor, wanna party?” He promptly laughed, picked up his keys, and left the bar. Not to be discouraged, I stepped onto the dance floor and began dancing wildly, flailing my arms and making short jumping leaps. About every 3 or 4 seconds I yelled, “Sex” or “Do it in the dirt.” (sexual innuendos) I was starting to get some attention, so I ramped thing up a bit by yelling, “Rats, Poop, and Butt-Head.” ( foul language)
After about 10 minutes I was so exhausted from wild dancing and shouting, I got in my car, went home, brushed my hair, washed my face and put on my flannel nightgown. When Tom got home, I was in bed and sound asleep. I AM A BAD GIRL AND I HAVE A SECRET LIFE. Perpetua disapproved of the whole adventure.
