I couldn’t ignore the pangs of jealousy. At 18, each girl was vibrant and colorful. Their eyes sparkled and their hair was shiny. I have no idea how they managed to eat crabs without getting butter on their silk-clad bosoms. What’s more, I couldn’t remember a time when I could get away with wearing anything silk, much less silk sans undergarments (as these young ladies were so obviously doing).
But the appeal was, so to speak, all on the surface:
As a spectator, I was privileged to witness the decline in the girls’ appeal. The wait staff grew weary of their endless requests and began voicing their unease over the fate of their tips. Every time a would-be suitor cashed out, hat in hand, the waiters lost heart. Their unease grew to anger and, before I knew it, I was hearing words that the devil himself would have cringed over.
This made me giddy. I realized that I may not be able to wear silk and will always need to wear undergarments, but I have staying power, baby! My charm at the end of the evening was just as strong as it was at the beginning. The smile I got from my waiter was genuine from start to finish. I may not giggle like I once did and my hair may be unruly, but by God, I am still vibrant.
Let’s hear it for non-instant gratification. (And really, who wants ruly hair?)
I’m still a wee bit jealous (because c’mon, don’t we all wish clothing-minus-undergarments was possible?) but I am so insanely glad that I’m not 18 anymore.
Well, it’s possible; it just isn’t advisable.