For as long as I can remember, trying to look sexy is something that I cannot do. Not that I’ve been trying to do it for that long, but I guess I always thought I’d get to an age/place/stage that would mark the time at which I was no longer so calamitously awkward.
Last week Sean and I headed up to the lake for date night. It was spectacular—with no one on the lake, just enough sun to be gorgeous and just enough wind to cool. Sean was taking us out to putter in Northwest Bay and I was devouring the quiet. Everywhere I looked was more golden sparkle of sunshine on water and sparks of crimson in stands of tress.
I gabbed my phone and took a picture of the shoreline. Completely swept up in the beauty of the mountains, I turned the camera on myself and tried to snap a causal, “Oh, this? I’m just sitting on the boat with a bit of wind in my hair” kind of look. My hair snapped me in the eye, caught in my mouth and generally played the role of sexiness squelcher.
By the time I got to the end of my attempt at casual perfection, Sean had snuck into the frame and my hair whipped him too. He had to duck and weave.
Lesson here: The lake is sexy enough.