Meet Pete, my doorman.
Not only does Pete sign for my FedEx packages and hold on to my dry cleaning for me, but he also doles out very sage advice in regards to matters of the heart. Tonight Pete told me that while he thinks I'm a very stunning woman, sometimes -- "and don't take this the wrong way," he made sure to preface the next part with -- sometimes I'm a little...you know....plain and could stand to do my hair up and wear some makeup -- not that I need to wear it, mind you, he added , but just, you know, on special occasions and stuff.
Read: when I'm with a guy.
Oh, and I should wear high heels.
Okay, yes, I could probably spend a little more time with the blowdryer in the morning, I'll give him that. And, yes, lately I've been skipping the eye shadow and seem to have misplaced my lipstick, but high heels? In Manhattan? When I walk approximately 80 blocks a day?
I'm thinking the answer to that is...NO WAY IN HELL.
I love Pete, and tonight I asked him if he would be my valentine, but although I'm a bit challenged in the ability-to-keep-firm-boundaries department, there are some things I just refuse to do. I stopped wearing high heels in Los Angeles years ago, even though the longest walk I made on a daily basis was from my apartment to my car.
Pete and I may have a very intimate doorman/tenant relationship, but he obviously does not know me as well I thought he did, because if he did, he'd know that I'm strictly a flip-flops kinda girl.
And red cowboy boots in winter, of course.
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