it became a whole new topic of conversation. By the time my hair and eyebrows were done, I had been given so much advice that I felt like a boxer who had been prepped by my corner man for a fight.
Overall, the consensus in the salon was that I should:
Â
1) Keep my expectations low. That way I wonât be disappointed.
2) Make lots of flirty eye contact. Smile, and laugh a lot.
3) Do NOT go back to his place.
4) Do NOT let him come to mine.
5) Keep my body language open.
6) Do NOT make out with him.
7) Do NOT give up the coochie before the seventh date.
Â
I went through my closet last night and realized for the first time that I donât own even one outfit with any real va-vava-voom .
In my line of business, it is imperative to look pulled together and in charge, so my closet is full of well-tailored power suits, but nothing accentuating or revealing. Nothing that would make a man say whoa!
So after leaving the salon, I made a mad last-minute dash to the mall. Nordstrom was having their half-yearly sale, so I stopped in there to search for the perfect outfit.
Next to eating, sex, and my career, there is nothing I love to do more than shop. But the one thing I hate about the whole experience is those damned three-way mirrors. No matter what you think you look like naked, it is always ten times worse when you stand in front of one of those things.
You get the up-close-and-personal, unvarnished truth, which in my case is 38Câs that arenât as perky as they used to be, a not-so-flat tummy, and cellulite for days.
Even so, I still look damn good in my clothes. And I was sure that when Sean saw me, he was going to think so too.
After paying the cashier, I walked out of the department store wearing the outfit I selected. It was simple, but cute, and very chic: a chocolate, formfitting halter dress designed by Tracy Reese, matching peep-toe pumps, and gold accessories.
I was going down the escalator when my cell phone rang.
It was Sean. I sent the call to voice mail, because I was already a nervous wreck. I did not need the added pressure of him reminding me that we were supposed to be face-to-face in less than twenty minutes.
Â
Whew! I made it. And I wasnât nearly as late as I thought I would be.
Punctuality, however, became the least of my worries as I searched for a parking spot outside of Union Station. That is when an overwhelming feeling of sheer terror seized me.
âItâs too soon!â I said to myself while beating on the steering wheel. âIâm not ready for this!â My nerves were bad because I hadnât been in the game for so long; my dating skills were beyond rusty. I wasnât even sure if I still knew how to act around a man other than Roland.
You can do it, Tori. Just breatheâ¦
I did a series of breathing exercises to keep from going into a full-blown panic attack.
Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, and exhale for four seconds. Repeat. Then repeat again. And again. And again.
Several minutes later I walked into Union Station, my stiletto heels tip-tapping across the beige marble floors.
Outwardly, I may have looked confident, but inwardly I was silently praying for the best.
By the time I got inside Pierpontâs, I was feeling a lot more confident. I walked straight to the long, dazzling bar, which is where Sean said he would be waiting for me. I did not see a tall black man in a red shirt right away, so I ordered an Amaretto Sour, and scanned the large after-work crowd that consisted mostly of white guys in button-down shirts and khaki pants.
To my left was a young Asian couple who were laughing and gazing into each otherâs eyes.
Way down at the opposite end of the bar, a group of five sisters were having a loud and heated debate on the fineness of Chris Brown versus Usher.
There was an older Hispanic man immediately to my right, who seemed oblivious to me and everything else going on around him. I watched as he
Overall, the consensus in the salon was that I should:
Â
1) Keep my expectations low. That way I wonât be disappointed.
2) Make lots of flirty eye contact. Smile, and laugh a lot.
3) Do NOT go back to his place.
4) Do NOT let him come to mine.
5) Keep my body language open.
6) Do NOT make out with him.
7) Do NOT give up the coochie before the seventh date.
Â
I went through my closet last night and realized for the first time that I donât own even one outfit with any real va-vava-voom .
In my line of business, it is imperative to look pulled together and in charge, so my closet is full of well-tailored power suits, but nothing accentuating or revealing. Nothing that would make a man say whoa!
So after leaving the salon, I made a mad last-minute dash to the mall. Nordstrom was having their half-yearly sale, so I stopped in there to search for the perfect outfit.
Next to eating, sex, and my career, there is nothing I love to do more than shop. But the one thing I hate about the whole experience is those damned three-way mirrors. No matter what you think you look like naked, it is always ten times worse when you stand in front of one of those things.
You get the up-close-and-personal, unvarnished truth, which in my case is 38Câs that arenât as perky as they used to be, a not-so-flat tummy, and cellulite for days.
Even so, I still look damn good in my clothes. And I was sure that when Sean saw me, he was going to think so too.
After paying the cashier, I walked out of the department store wearing the outfit I selected. It was simple, but cute, and very chic: a chocolate, formfitting halter dress designed by Tracy Reese, matching peep-toe pumps, and gold accessories.
I was going down the escalator when my cell phone rang.
It was Sean. I sent the call to voice mail, because I was already a nervous wreck. I did not need the added pressure of him reminding me that we were supposed to be face-to-face in less than twenty minutes.
Â
Whew! I made it. And I wasnât nearly as late as I thought I would be.
Punctuality, however, became the least of my worries as I searched for a parking spot outside of Union Station. That is when an overwhelming feeling of sheer terror seized me.
âItâs too soon!â I said to myself while beating on the steering wheel. âIâm not ready for this!â My nerves were bad because I hadnât been in the game for so long; my dating skills were beyond rusty. I wasnât even sure if I still knew how to act around a man other than Roland.
You can do it, Tori. Just breatheâ¦
I did a series of breathing exercises to keep from going into a full-blown panic attack.
Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, and exhale for four seconds. Repeat. Then repeat again. And again. And again.
Several minutes later I walked into Union Station, my stiletto heels tip-tapping across the beige marble floors.
Outwardly, I may have looked confident, but inwardly I was silently praying for the best.
By the time I got inside Pierpontâs, I was feeling a lot more confident. I walked straight to the long, dazzling bar, which is where Sean said he would be waiting for me. I did not see a tall black man in a red shirt right away, so I ordered an Amaretto Sour, and scanned the large after-work crowd that consisted mostly of white guys in button-down shirts and khaki pants.
To my left was a young Asian couple who were laughing and gazing into each otherâs eyes.
Way down at the opposite end of the bar, a group of five sisters were having a loud and heated debate on the fineness of Chris Brown versus Usher.
There was an older Hispanic man immediately to my right, who seemed oblivious to me and everything else going on around him. I watched as he
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