I was having one of those days. I got dressed, looked in the mirror and said” Damn, I look good!” As I made my way to the subway, the men on the street concurred, “Baby I’d drink your bath water”, “Darlin’ next time I’ll bottle it for you”, I replied. On the train, I strategically took a seat across from a window as to gaze at my lovely reflection, only to have my view obstructed by an even lovelier view. She was stunning, I mean, absolutely, hatefully gorgeous. This girl didn’t belong on a sub way but on a runway. The type that made you wonder, “What does it feel like to be that beautiful?” She looked airbrushed by God. I put my shades on so I could study her unnoticed, and hide my homeliness. As my insecurities strangled me, my heart began to pound, I began to sweat, I even contemplated getting off the train to escape her. I was undone, wrecked! I had to work hard to maintain my pH balance (playa hatin’ balance). I didn’t get off the train. I forced myself to give her mental props. I even thought of telling her but …

I complement women all the time. I love to see the look of surprise and gratitude they get, like they’ve just won a prize, and they have, in the acknowledgment and approval of a peer. Let’s face it, women dress for (or against) other women. Their opinion counts even if we can’t admit it aloud. But Physics tells us: two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Is that true of beauty? What about intelligence, or talent?
Was her beauty really clouding mine? Was I not the same beautiful, smart intelligent, sexy, witty, and charming and dare I say modest woman that left my house? . Of course it helped that she got off at 72nd Street and I was going downtown.

Well that’s my two cents; you can keep the change!