Too Sexy for my Sweatpants

“You must be a model or something.” I was wearing a jersey, shorts past my knees, sandals and socks. I looked down at my half-devoured chicken hoagie. Look, I’m not exactly perceptive — up until the night of my parents’ wedding reception, I had been under the distinct impression that my stepdad was black. He’s Polish. But I realized that this stranger’s powers of perception rivaled my own.

I turned around to be face-to-chest with a 5’7” coke fiend with an obvious case of the jitters. I would’ve thought he was joking, but the unguarded lust in his one steady eye told me this man was sincere. Like most of the lady-kind, I know that genuine compliments are as rare as leftovers at WeightWatchers, so I decided to fan the fire.