The Smoothness Strikes Again.

When I worked in West Roxbury, my daily commute was an epic pain in the ass.
This was, of course, one of the many reasons for quitting, but that is old news.

However, there was but a single redeeming feature of this harrowing two-hour voyage through the deepest depths of human misery (i.e., the MBTA), which came in the form of a particularly pulchritudinous man. I would see him nearly every evening around 6:30 p.m., walking up Exchange Street to Malden Station, our paths crossing on our way home from our respective workplaces. Consequently, I called him Mr. Six-Thirty, which is not the most original nickname I have ever conceived of, but it suited the immediate purpose.

I won't mince words: Mr. Six-Thirty is a sex knight.
Tall as a Viking.
Hair like... a Viking.
Eyes that shoot sexy laser beams, much like a Viking.
Smokes cigarettes leaning against a wall like James Dean, but with more decidedly Nordic tendencies.

Take the best parts of Ralph Fiennes:


Colin Firth:


And Cary Elwes (before he got fat):


Put them in a sweater vest and that, dear reader, is Mr. Six-Thirty.
But I digress.

After quitting my job, I didn't see him anymore, which was both sad and a huge relief. I say "relief" because my brain's reaction to such over-stimulating visual input would usually be to short-circuit, leading to a rather embarrassing lapse in motor function. Sometimes, I was literally afraid that I would defecate. Even the act of recalling what he looks like makes me want to poop myself.
As I have previously stated: Disney Princess, I am not.

Anyway, a few days ago, as I was leaving the gym...
(And allow me to preface this statement by explaining what a vision of loveliness I am emerging from Planet Fitness, and I mean that with every ounce of sarcasm in my fleshy, corpulent body. No really, it's sexy, like the Birth of Venus, except sweatier and smellier. Who wants some of this sexitude? Get in line, my gentlemen callers.)
... I was heaving my sweaty gargantuan thighs down Exchange Street, and because the universe so thoroughly enjoys laughing at my expense, that was also the exact moment Mr. Six-Thirty decided to have a smoke break in front of his office building. Mind you, I had just passed the Exchange Street Bistro, where I had caused the patrons seated by the windows to throw up a little into their martinis, but I was trying so hard to muster some semblance of sexiness, which involves strenuous self-delusion--in this case, the delusion that some men are actually turned on by sweaty women coming from the gym.
I mean, I'm working on my fitness.
That's kind of hot, right?
I'll never be one of those jerks who gets up at 5 a.m. to do yoga as the sun rises, or run a marathon for autistic children, but I've got tantric endurance when it really matters.
Thus, I successfully delude myself into going for it.
I figured he was at a safe distance away, so at least he couldn't smell me. There I am, trying as hard as I fucking can to channel Pheobe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, I'm Moving in Stereo, I'm slow-motion sexing your mind, and there he is, leaning against the wall, smoking his cigarette. I cast a long, super-dramatic glance over at him and there is an electrifying moment when we maintain purposeful eye contact... followed by the equally electrifying moment when the bus that is about to hit me starts beeping and I realized that I just walked out into traffic and am about to die.

My team mascot is definitely "The Smoothness".

I wish that bus had hit me. Then perhaps he would have done CPR on what was left of my face.
Alas.

And so, I haven't quite figured out how I am going to initiate a dialogue with him.
I think I need a 1983 Casio DG20 electric guitar, set to electric mandolin:




Or I could say hey, remember that time I almost got hit by a bus?
Or, how about that time I fell down?
Or, how about the time I was a giant mess?
Can we re-enact scenes from Body of Evidence now?
We can take turns being Madonna.

You go first.