The Starting Gate

With a fresh round of traveling drinks in hand, the girls and I head back to our room. We have a well orchestrated routine of showering, primping and outfit selection ironed out over all these years. Penny takes the longest. She showers first. The rest of us begin to make outfit choices and shoe decisions and trade articles of clothing and jewelry and such.

It is a shrill romp of girly frivolity. I am sure we're disturbing neighboring guests for miles. The hotel should know not to put us within earshot of any babies intending to sleep or couples looking for a quiet get away. Never. Gonna. Happen.

I have assembled a perfect outfit that masters the combined looks "Casually Sexy" and "Made No Effort At All" which in my opinion leads people to believe that I would probably look deliciously fabulous if my house caught fire and I had to run out in whatever I was wearing while unclogging the toilet.

But I can't find the belt. And the belt not only positions the shorts in exactly the right spot low on my hips but is the pop of pattern and color that brings the whole outfit together. (Even Hil said so. And she is a harsh critic.) So I mention that I can't find it, half expecting everyone to form a search party and Sherlock and Watson through every square inch of the premises. (They don't.) I mention it again. Probably 9 or 10 times more. I have become Rain Man. And then I decide to open and rifle through every drawer and closet that the belt may have wandered into, having grown legs while we were flirting at the pool.

I have become a nuisance, I am sure. There is a heavy collective sigh of relief when I find it. No one actually had to go through with knocking me out with the table lamp. I am sure the find was anti-climactic. The belt makes the outfit but it is not like it's the Hope Diamond. I am sure the girls are wondering what the big hairy deal is.

But the deal is this. I kind of like John. Sitting next to him at the table was fun. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke. I like the way he seemed to thoroughly enjoy it when I gave one of his friends a ration of good natured crap. He'd told me I looked "adorable" in my hat. So when we run into them later (and ignore them for an hour) I want to look amazing. Since I won't be able to talk to him or dance with him (we are totally calling their bluff and doing this) I want him to see me across the bar and think I look smashing. And be tempted to break the one hour rule because I look smashing enough that surely some other male bar patron will think the same thing, and he won't have a one hour rule.

So my hair and makeup and outfit must be casually flawless. And that means I needed the damn belt.

When it is my turn to shower I turn every stone in the grooming department. It is nice to be excited to see someone. Nice to want to look nice for someone. I shave exactingly. I buff and slough off every cell that is more than a half a day old. I scrub meticulously. I use the best smelling hair products and repeat as directed. I use an unscented body oil so that my perfume stands out. I brush and floss and rinse with mouthwash (which won't matter for one minute once beer is involved).

And we all do similarly. Now that the Belt Crisis has ended.

I love the part when we all decide that we are the picture of perfection and ready to walk out the door. We are all complimenting each other and boosting one another's confidence. It is completely genuine. These are girls who won't let you walk out the door looking less than fabulous, and are thrilled for you when you've pulled it off. A girl on her game is another girls best friend.

We've decided to go to the old standby bar across the side street. The music is always great and we are likely to meet people we've met before. We have a way of collecting friends in far away places. Tonight is no different. The band is killing it and we make quite an appearance as we stride in single file.

We walk to the far bar and within a minute we are surrounded by men who are way too young but way too cute to ignore. It's someone's bachelor party and they are buying drinks. They outnumber us two-fold. We like the ratio. Why not enjoy their company and their generosity. New friends are fun.

And as the first couple of guys turn from the bar to hand us our first round of drinks, who do you think walks by?

Chris, John, Mark and The Beave.

They'll have to punt.

But I am hoping John doesn't.