I told them they had the wrong girl, but apparently body guards and government officials aren't paid for their listening skills. Here I sat in my house, in my favorite comfy chair reading a book, and they rang the door bell, at ten o'clock at night. No door to door salesmen will ever knock that late.
Removed from my usual sanctuary, I stood up, set my book down, and answered the door. I blinked, shaking the fatigue out of my eyes, not believing what I saw. Two cars had been parked in front of my step-mother's house, and a group of men had made their way toward my door. If they had meant to look friendly, they needed to hire a new image consultant. Since when do tuxedos and sunglasses encourage a welcome-mat demeanor?
If the look of them on my front lawn at ten o'clock at night in tuxedos and sunglasses didn't throw me, the box in their hand did. It sparkled in the body guard's hand, transparent glass with a rosey satin pillow inside. I hate pink. I hate Barbie dolls. I hate curling irons, but above all, I hate high heels. Inside the box, rested a glass slipper that nearly ran the pillow through like a double edged sword.
This had to be some sort of joke. Who did this guy think he was? Who did he think I was? Did my frumpy pajamas scream repressed beauty queen? Apparently the frown on my face screamed "Come on in!"
So they did, pushing me out of the way as they settled down on my couch. As an afterthought, they escorted me to my ottoman, plopped my tush on it and removed my left shoe without a word. A bit too shocked, I didn't stop them. And then...to my horror...they put the slipper on my foot.
And it fit.
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