I was giddy all day with the prospect of going to the opera, and then I was giggly all day when I realized what I was excited about.
The opportunity to talk with a man in the flesh. Emphasis on flesh. Perhaps even flirting with a man for the first time in three years. That's what I was anticipating. (And don't tell me I have a husband. I have over-complimented him and now it doesn't even register.)
Once I knew what I wanted, and I picked up friend Anne, and sat down to the pre-opera al fresco meal, I ran commentary on the people streaming past us to the picnic tent. I said, "Ooh look at those pants" and "Check it out, man in a hat" and "man with hands in pockets at three o'clock" until Anne said, "Oh you poor thing."
Which was why, when we were waiting for the doors to open, Anne nudged me.
"Salmon Pants," she said, nodding toward a man I had noticed in the Man Parade wearing salmon-pink pants and a matching bow-tie. He had eaten dinner in view of our table.
I strode over and touched him politely on the arm.
"I have to tell you, you have just excellent fashion sense. I've been admiring you all through the picnic." Then I gestured at his ensemble.
"Oh, you're making me blush," he said, "Thank you," and then he nooded at his date. "I'm with her," he said, randomly.
"Oh she looks gorgeous too. But look at you!" I waved at his ensemble. Then I left. Because, you know, it could have become awkward. Drop the compliment bomb and vanish.
Then after the opera it got even worse because as we were filing out a man in a tuxedo was walking in and I did a complete 360 while walking so I could watch him walk away. And I did not fall down. When I was facing forward again Anne said, "Tuxedo?" and I breathed "Man lingerie" and a woman next to us laughed.
I occurred to me that if Salmon Pants has season tickets I will see him again, but he won't spot me because I will be wearing a different wig for every performance, and if that is not a pervy thing to say I don't know what is.