Leather: An Unfortunate Choice in Leg Wear and in Skin Quality

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.  Like miniskirts and women over the age of 35 who should not be wearing them, leather pants are only for really skinny, shirtless, teenage male hustlers who’ve inked their own artless tattoos on their knuckles and whose greasy hair is always in their eyes.  Any other application of leather pants is passé, not to mention sweltering on the inside, no matter how well made the pants are or how rich or shapely the wearer is. 

 

I advertised for a boyfriend on Craiglist last year, in a post that garnered more than a few interesting comments and one unforgettable meet ‘n greet.  I call them “meet ‘n greets” because you should never, ever agree to spend more than one hour, maximum, with a potential date.  Meet them, greet them, and then walk away.  You can always email later if there’s any “there” there, as the fabulous Ms. Stein said.  Always have an out, agreed to up front on the phone, before you meet anyone.  And, yes, you must speak on the phone beforehand, lest you end up sipping a double tall nonfat latte across from a guy who talks like Mickey Mouse.  Unfortunately, I learned these things the hard way.

 

For some reason I had become quite excited at the prospect of this particular meeting.  It started when I received a photo he’d sent of himself, sitting inside a gorgeous vintage Porsche convertible.  Leaning out over the driver’s side door, he looked awfully cute, what with his silvery brown hair and hip black glasses.  And then he telephoned and sang me a song while he strummed the guitar (The Wreck of the old ’97—what can I say, I’m a sucker for rockaballads).  Turns out he’d been a music producer in the ’80s, and I all could think was royalties! 

 

I went to Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale and found a gorgeous Furla bag at a bargain, and then I found the cutest pair of orange Pucci wedges.  The nails were done, the makeup went on, the eyes emerged with shadowy drama, the designer halter top looked perfect (and felt great with a lot of skin exposed to the summery night air), and I hit all my pulse points with my two favorite perfumes.  The promise of life beckoned, and I was on my way to my rendezvous, a lovely cottage restaurant in the heart of Hollywood, with a candlelit patio bedecked in heady night-blooming vines.

 

Mr. Man had told me he was around six feet tall and 45 years old.  I’m 5’6”—probably around 5’9” in the shoes—and nowhere near his age.  I’d told him I’d meet him in the foyer, yet at the appointed hour the only person I saw was this scrawny old dude who didn’t even come up to my chin.  Worse, he had to have been about 65 years old, an age he was trying to hide by wearing a white dinner jacket and (drum roll, please), a pair of black leather pants.  Let me say that again:  Black.  Leather.  Pants.  On a guy who was no taller than 5’3” and had been taking advantage of senior discounts for at least ten years. 

 

The guy had the temerity to reach up, stroke my cheek and declaim my skin as beautiful.  I immediately pulled back, knowing I had fallen into a horrible pit and not knowing how to climb out.  Should I walk away without saying a word and leave him standing there?  Excuse myself to go to the ladies room and slip out the back door?  Accuse him of lying and fling a glass of water in his face?   I did none of the above.  Instead I sat down and agreed to chat.

 

He ordered a bowl of ripe fruit with vanilla ice cream.  I ordered a glass of water.  Body language is nowhere nearly as telling as ordering language.  As we waited to be served he told me he had grown up poor in Pennsylvania and had managed to overcome nearly a decade of heroin addiction.  If I had had my glass of water, I would have done a spit take. 

 

My water and his bowl of fruit arrived, a lovely mound of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, and he asked if I’d like a bite.  I reached out with my newly manicured hand and delicately, gently plucked a single raspberry from my side of the bowl—and was promptly yelled at for not using a fork, which of course is the polite way to dine according to Mr. Man.  At this point, inside my head, I was starting to panic and actively looking for all the exits to make a dramatic escape if need be.

 

And then he casually threw into the conversation that he didn’t shoot drugs any more.  The only shot he did these days, he claimed, was a mix of testosterone and human growth hormone.  “Puts lead in your pencil,” he mentioned, with a wink.  Oh.  My.  God.  He had basically just let me know that at his advanced age he could take care of me…sexually.  And that was when I excused myself to go to the ladies room…and never returned.

 

So while there may be basic rules of decorum about wearing leather pants, there are absolutely no rules about ditching assholes.  Gals, you gotta do what ya gotta do.