I saw this photo and had to chortle. The setting is clearly not of affluence; yet, the subject is clearly displaying her desire to exude, shall we say, a come hither-you know you want me pose. those stilettos aren't made for walkin', my friends. No, those are what I like to refer to as CFM shoes.
I can imagine what's on the other side of this photo. Or rather who is on the receiving end of this woman's conspicuous attempt to seduce. There sits her significant other, Barney. He's home from the salt mines and has cracked open a fresh bottle of suds. He's stripped down to his dirty white t-shirt, slightly stained boxers, tube socks bearing a filthy ring around the ankle where his boots hit. All he can focus on is the sports page and scratching that itch that he can't quite reach. UGH! Barney, they make ointments for that, bud.
She arches her back, gives her hair a toss with hopes that he'll take notice. But alas, all he can mutter to her is, "Make me a turkey pot-pie, I'm starving! What's with that crazy get up? How much did it cost me and is your crazy sister coming over or something? -- And while you're up, I could use another beer."
I can recall a time when I accused my former husband of never noticing me. In fact on this one particular day I made the declaration that it would take me walking outside completely nude for him to stand up and ask, "what's different about you?"
When we first moved to Georgia I managed to drop several pounds without really killing myself. I exercised, danced around with my little boy, I ate a lot less (drank a lot more wine). It was 1998 and I decided on New Year's Eve that I was going to make myself happy. I focused on the bright spots and I didn't feed myself emotionally. The weight came off and I must admit I was looking rather delectable. At least in comparison. I started wearing more form fitting clothing. I tossed the saggy, baggy, frumpy attire. Lower rise jeans were just coming on the market. I think they were called boyfriend jeans. I could wear shirts that just slightly showed skin if I raised my arms. I was happy with what I saw. I can recall other people telling me how great I was looking. The one person I wanted to take notice was my husband.
Once while dressing for work, I slipped into a dress I wouldn't typically wear to work, but I wanted to see what he'd say. I work/ed in an optical lab. I always wore khakis or black slacks. The dress was a slim fitting black, tank style. A slit was up the side just above my knee. Over it, I wore a sheer, black and white print blouse. It didn't really do more than give the illusion that I was covered up. In addition to that, I wore black stockings and heels. My hair was perfectly curly and tousled.
As I strode to the car, I yelled to him that I was leaving for work and that I'd see him later. Not a word about my appearance. I dilly-dallied, leaning in the car. Walking around it to check something in the backseat. Nothing. I waved goodbye and he simply said he'd see me later. I got to work and that's where I received the reaction I had desired. My newly chiseled curves were in full view. It is ironic that despite the resounding praise and accolades given from my co-workers, I felt empty. The man whose adoration I sought out had let me drive away without a single utterance of how much I'd transformed.
That marriage is now over. A woman can only stand being ignored for so long. Of course, he claims he did no such thing. I'm quite sure that people are oblivious to their own actions when they are in a situation that is just comfortable. We fall prey to routine.
Then, one person decides routine just isn't satisfying; however, the other party is fine with it. All hell breaks loose and you're left shopping with money you don't have to spend, but those jeans fit your ass so perfectly. How could that fine rump not make him think routine-shmoutine? Let's turn this town upside down with newness!! He doesn't react in such a manner. So, you drag out the inflatable mattress and tell him his routine lovin' self can sleep on that while you take your new hotness out with girlfriends. Yeah, that taught him! OK, not really. We ended up divorcing in '99 ... and here I am.