I Wanted to Look Pretty ...

I knew Thursday might be the last day to work on my little assignment, 

so wanted to present a nice appearance for particular people. 

I wore a new pair of trousers I'd just hemmed, made of 

a tiny houndstooth check material. I wore a nice lace top 

that contrasted well with the weave and a black tunic cardigan. 

It looked pretty decent together.

My hair looked sleek and shiny and behaved 

well this morning, too.

It was raining lightly when I left the house, but the temperature was decent.

I caught the bus from home just as the downpour hit. Snug and warm

on the bus, I wasn't too concerned; I had another bus to catch but that hadn't 

presented much of a hassle in the past. Did I tell you it was raining?

I crossed the street to wait for the second bus. Commuters drove past where

I was standing, throwing up five foot walls of rainwater that was

pooled near the curb. Great splotches of water (re)rained upon my

(formerly) shiny head, sprayed like a fusillade of bullets across my raincoat,

and dotted my new trousers with giant wet spots, not once, not twice,

but four times. I was torn between using my umbrella against

the falling rain, or as a shield against the onslaught from the street.

Neither effort was effective. I couldn't get away from it.

The fourth assault by passing cars resulted

in street soil-tainted water being splashed on my chest and

running down between my breasts, into the lacy bra that was

underneath my pretty lace top. The bus turned the corner and stopped 

to pick me up just as I began to cry from frustration.

I had wanted to look pretty.
When I left home I was Angelina Jolie, Helen Mirren, and
Ellen Barkin. By the time I got to work I was just
another sodden, bedraggled, overweight woman who wanted
to earn a few bucks for Christmas money.

Merry Christmas, everybody. Merry Christmas, Joe.