TaupeOpera : BLOAP#1: If at 31st you don't succeed....

Staring at the ceiling fan casting early morning shadows on the wall, Skye wondered why she was having such difficulty hypnotizing herself . She had been up for at least an hour, trying to forget the more unseemly aspects of the previous evening. She had succeeded in getting a headache and freaking out her cat. Admitting defeat, she threw her blanket onto the floor and promptly fell to her knees when she tried to get off of the sofa. She had fallen asleep with her shoes on, and the do me pumps which had seemed like such a good idea last night, were quickly flung across the room.

Skye limped into the bathroom to inspect the damage; eyes red, full trousseau under the red eyes, hair was wild, nose still crooked and the mole/beauty mark next to her left eye was still there. Skye inspected herself for any odd bumps or bruises, it was amazing the black and blue marks that could appear on a person after a few bottles of wine. She spotted a growing dark spot on her lower right calf and shook her head. She was getting too old for this shit, too old for more than one bottle of red wine a week, too old for blind dates that should have been under the care of Nurse Ratchet, too old for the trials and tribulations of being single and sassy.

Skye peeled off her dress and ran a bath, she blindly threw in shakes and pinches of bath salts and beads from an array of bottles on her bathroom shelf. A great believer in the restorative effects of the bath, Skye had spent many hours and countless dollars on bath salts, beads, bubbles, waterproof toys and so forth. After particularly trying days, she would lie in the bath until every part of her body matched the tiny crinkles around her eyes.

She got into the bath and reviewed her previous evening, it had started auspiciously enough, one of my mother’s friend’s an older woman in her mid fifties had been badgering Skye for weeks about her nephew, the gallery owner. The handsome, smart, funny and fiscally secure gallery owner. Skye had been dodging hints as subtle as dropping anvils for weeks. At least half a dozen times a year, Skye was roped into a blind date that made her want to renounce all material possessions and join the Carmelite convent.

Which is how she found herself in a restaurant; having a delicious glass of wine, across from a very attractive man, enjoying fantastic conversation. John Smith(not his real alias) had picked her up on time, with flowers, drove a vintage Mercedes convertible, had made reservations at one of her favorite restaurants, was chivalrous (shouldn’t get points, but does because so many men think that feminism means a woman in a backless dress and heels should not only open her own door, but carry him through it.) and was a liberal republican(who knew there was such a thing).

By dessert, Skye was baited, hooked and ready to be reeled in. When John proposed an after dinner drink at his gallery, she almost screamed yes. When he placed his hand on her thigh while he said it, well she was well past screaming. While Skye waited for the valet to get the car, she almost had to slap herself to snap out of her lust induced reverie. As John’s car was brought up, an extremely good looking man drove up to the valet and hopped out. He stared at Skye smiled and headed straight for her, “Oh ho ho,” she thought, too late buddy, I’m taken, see that tall, dark, handsome thing over there, oh you’re going over there, oh, you’re kissing my tall, dark and handsome thing, oh my God!