My life is not only a situation comedy, you guys. It's a romantic comedy as well.
Why, only this morning I was splashed by a cab on my way to work just like countless other starlets throughout history! (I was going to post pictures of these women but I'm just too tired to figure out how to bring up these pictures in a google image search. So please enjoy this picture of Lindsay Lohan and her boobs.)
Still with me? Good.
So the cab zoomed by me and, although I had my umbrella up, the minute it hit that puddle I was soaked. I stopped dead in my tracks with an astonished, "no!" look on my face. I stood there a second more. Where was the handsome man offering his finest handkerchief? One that I'll "accidentally" keep and, thanks to the monogram he had inscribed on this and all his personal possessions, use to track him down and marry. A man rushed past me, looked back and smiled. This could be him! Look shocked! So I did. The man who would be mine winked at me and said, "thanks for blocking me!"
Thanks for blocking me. THANKS FOR BLOCKING ME. What he meant was, "thanks for taking the hit on that one. I've got a hot date tonight with someone taller and thinner than you and it really would have been a drag had I ruined this fuckin' awesome suit. High five."
No bother with him. Who wants to date a man who monograms all his belongings, anyway?
But surely... surely there was a man standing across the street who had seen the entire scene unfold who found me utterly charming in that "Bridget Jones" way. Oh look, there is a man across the street! I see him! He's looking my way! He's waving! To a man. Oh he's gay. Oh... I live on Christopher Street.
Mother of God, Glennis, just go to work!
And so I did. There was no romantic moment then, just as there wasn't one two years ago when I did a literal nose-dive into the sidewalk in almost that exact location. No man stopped to help me up (no man, no woman, no nuthin') and thank goodness because blood was streaming down my face. Who wants to kiss a girl with blood on her face? I don't want to know the man that does (unless I get really desperate).
3 times, while in Times Square, I've been walking over subway grates and had my dress blown up around my ears. I'm pretty sure a few kids saw my business and even more sure my underwear had holes in them.
Liz and I wrote a sketch called "Romantic Comedy 101" in which a crazy old teacher gave lessons on how to perfect the top RC moments. Being splashed by a bus, falling down, the "dancing in your underwear" montage, getting waxed (not sure if that was actually one but having been waxed my first time the other day I can assure you a lesson would have come in handy), etc. I could use this class now, I think. I'm pretty sure I look neither adorable or sexy when stuff like this happens to me. I think lesson one might be: purchase new underwear without holes in them.