F*ck Romantic Comedies: Un-Pretty Woman

The most worrisome thing to me was my ensemble.  How was I going to fit in?  I wanted a brown and white polka dot dress similar to the one worn by Julia Roberts in the film, but no luck.  I headed to Target and grabbed what I thought could pass as a high end ensemble of silk shirt, khaki pants, and espadrilles, as well as a giant black hat that completely covered my face.  I decided to add my Buddy Holly-inspired glasses from Urban Outfitters, putting the dork stamp on my outfit.

I met my friend and rode to the polo club in her Mercedes.  Valeting the car, the gentleman opening my door commented on the glasses.  “This is a good sign,” I thought to myself, stepping out of the car and feeling like a million bucks.  Some handsome, rich man is going to notice the diamond in the rough that is myself, we will then fall in love and ride off into the sunset on a white (million dollar) polo horse.

Wrong.  The severe lack of man flesh caused me to drink too much champagne, over consume finger sandwiches, and step in a steaming divot in my brand new espadrilles.  The highlight of the day was seeing the celebrity guests that had come out for the matches, as it is swanky (when you’re not in the bench seats like we were.)  I noticed a woman in a short black lace dress and huge high heels that were completely inappropriate for standing in grass, a blond man in designer duds at her side.  “That’s a Real Housewife,” I said to my friend.  As we moved closer, I realized that the gentleman was none other than Carson Kressley from Queer Eye.  My friend got a photo op and a compliment on her basket.  I got Jack.  Jack Shit.

Though we had a pleasant afternoon, the hope that a lower to middle class girl like myself could Pygmalion herself and find the man of her dreams at an upper class sporting event was ridiculous and ill thought out.  Obviously, my first step should have been visiting a street corner.  I’ll just call up the Real Housewife and borrow her shoes.  Fabulous!

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