Off Center in the Attic

The Wallflower

The WallflowerMy two mannerly friends and I sit at our table and watch you walk into the room. People notice you, especially the guys. Your clothes are eye-catching and a bit more daring than I would think of wearing, but I don't accept every style change that comes along. Maybe that's why I occasionally feel like a wallflower in last month's trends. Your patent red stilettos draw attention to the fact that you've learned to walk on tiptoes. At least doing so is said to keep the calf muscles firm.

That tight black mini skirt could easily show the meeting place of your legs but it does make you appear smaller than you are. The plunging neckline of your beaded and sequined red silk blouse exemplifies the fact that you carry some weight, most of it above your waistband, and that acts as if it would rather break out and roam free. Your bangles and beads jingle and sparkle as only costume jewelry can. Could the glitz of your bling be why no one comments on the diamond tennis bracelet and other jewelry I patiently paid off over time in order to have pieces of value that will last? The sparkle of mine is subtle and pure under the lights of the nearby dance floor, but my jewelry doesn't make noise.

You find your table but don't sit to give the guys a chance to notice you. That's our way, but much too slow for you, the ultimate woman of the moment. My friends and I know your moves too well and watch you play them out as we smile in disbelief behind our table napkins.

You fling your tiny red evening bag into a chair and begin swiveling your way around the room talking to every guy along the way and flipping your tinted hair using provocative gestures and batting false eyelashes. Your cleavage bounces and rolls as you gyrate your way from table to table. Some of the guys reach for you, as if they want you to stay with them a little longer. Some follow and join you in others' conversations as if trying to claim you.

Other women in the room seem intimidated and drag their guys to the dance floor when you get a little too close to their tables. I'll bet I'm not the only person who expects you to break into song like a speak-easy entertainer of old who parks herself on the edge of some guy's table, or in his lap. Your voice and laughter have a way of quieting a room and drawing attention. Unlike you, too much noise and attention to me and my face turns red.

You pass our table and look at my friends and me only momentarily so you don't have to read our expressions. You know we understand what's happening here. You pucker up thick glossy red lips and move on. Or is that a fake pucker from the injections you've had to enlarge the thin upper lip you had a few months ago? Your colorful eye makeup would make Nefertiti envious but, surely, her perfume was more subtle. The red blush under your cheek bones accentuates both your jaw line and your fish-like pout.

Strange, too, is how once you spend an hour or so making your way around the room, you manage to corner some of the most eligible guys into a group and fawn over them, or they over you. As the night goes on you have trouble holding your glass upright. Strange, too, is how the guy you seem to favor begs out of the conversation leaving you with the others, even though you reach for him and try to draw him back.

Disbelief is your expression when he turns and walks straight over to our table and asks me to dance. As we whirl past you, the look you see on my face is not an expression of gloating. It's simply the naturally blushing wallflower being thankful for being real. But I can't help wonder who you really are and what you're hiding behind the façade you've felt the need to build around yourself.