Your shoes, babe.

So I'm out with Gwen and Wes, our most fabulous of fabulous gay friends, and Wes whispers to me that there's some adorable dish eyeing me from across the bar.  I casually look up over the rim of my dirty dirty martini and see that indeed, there is a lovely specimen of man giving me a shy smile.  I'm sizing him up immediately (as I'm sure he's doing to me) and have yet to find anything deterring me from the approach.

Well groomed hair, nice button up shirt, perfect teeth, either whiskey or scotch on the rocks and--are those--dimples?!  I'm a lost cause at this point.

I grab my clutch and drain my 'tini and head in the direction of the bathroom to powder my nose (with the pretense of going in for the kill on my way back), and then I see them.

Below his well-pressed slacks (crease and all), his feet rest beneath his stool encased in dirty, beat up cross-trainers.

Ugh.  There goes my hard on.  I get into the bathroom to fix my makeup and tell myself that all is not lost.  He could be on his way to or from the gym.  He could have been walking to work or on his way to pick up his shoes from the cobbler (do people still go to those?!) and I'm making excuses for him before I even met him.  You may think it's judgmental, but quick judgments are an evolutionary tool that we've developed to avoid wasting our time with those less than worthy.  But I've talked myself into giving him a chance by now because of those fucking dimples, and am determined to figure out those ghastly shoes along the way.

When I leave the bathroom, he's paying his bill.  He turns to me and gives me a little wave, and walks out the door.  I get back to my seat between Gwen and Wes, and the bartender comes over to hand me a business card.

"The guy left this for you," he says.  Underneath his name, it reads Life Coach.


"Is this a joke?"  I ask the bartender.  I can't tell if it's flattering that he gave me his number or a dig that I need some kind of life coaching help.  Therapy, yes, probably, but life coaching?  Gwen and Wes are dying of laughter.  The bartender shrugs.  I toss the business card in the trash.

Wes pays for my next dirty dirty martini and takes my hands.  "You don't need a life coach," he says.  "You need to get poked.  And not by some "life coach" in bad shoes."