Two ships that pass in the Target

So, I'm at the Target. And I turn the corner at the hot drinks aisle, questing for cocoa. And I see this guy. You know those guys where all you can think is "holy shit"? And they especially only seem to be there when you look like holy shit. Or maybe that's just me. But then again everybody has a different sort of HS kind of guy. My knee-melter may not be yours. This one happened to be tall. Kinda lanky. Hugh Grantish hair. Looked like the lead in a remake of Brideshead Revisited. Dashing wool overcoat and everything. Holy shit. Him, stunning. Me barely recognizable as female in the way only cold weather can bring. Puffy coat. Industrial strength wool cap. Babuska thrown on at a jaunty angle. Of course I say barely recognizable as female. The giant box of Always in my hands might have been a tip off. And I already had my face composed in my patented "Outta my way, slowpoke" scowl. Actually, it's not patented. It's just something of a speciality.

Not that I was in his league. I just would have preferred that it didn't look like I wasn't in his species. He was a non-starter being 10 years too young and about 3 times too pretty (you know how I feel about men who are prettier than me). And yet. . . and yet. I do love Hugh Grantish hair.

What is it about a good looking man that even if all other factors are not equal, you still want to feel attractive, if not actually attract? Doesn't really matter how old they are. Rich or poor. Gay or straight. You still have that momentary, illogical, flying thought - I wish I'd put on lipstick or the pretty sweater. Or in this case had dressed as something other than Frances McDormand's body double in Fargo.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh dearie me

I don’t know. I don’t know. Suddenly, I’m just not as confident as I was. I mean, I’m sure NO ONE was wearing anything even remotely like this at the SAG Awards. I mean, it’s the dress I would have worn if I hadn’t been a prom-refusenik in 1987. Except probably I would have worn white pumps. Or neon pink.

And that’s the thing. Where is that little soupcon of neon pink? Or the clutch of emu feathers? Or the tulle? Dammit. There’s no tulle! Block out the head and this could have been anybody (well, almost anybody). And she’s wearing black platform pumps! I mean really. Kim Kardashian probably has those same shoes. HB-C could at least have had little rhinestone skulls on her shoes.

I mean, I’ve just built this up so. This run of truly Helena Bonham-Carter dresses that will get progressively more HB-C. Until, the crowning moment. The Oscars. When she glides down the red carpet in something truly magnificent (possibly motorized with fairy wings, or a small tasteful brooch made from a functioning Tesla machine). St. Helena of the Volcanic Gowns is really one of the last bastions of individuality on the red carpet. And not to get attention. She doesn’t need attention. She has talent! And she’s also not doing it because she’s over-medicated. She just seems to wear what she wants to wear.

And this is what she wanted to wear. I mean. It’s okay. But it’s just so . . . plain. Damned near, oh, I can barely think it. It’s almost . . . tasteful. I’m so concerned. Maybe this is just a red herring. A sartorial sorbet, to clear the palate. And she just has something incredible planned for the Academy Awards. Like twins dressing with Tilda Swinton. Oh! I just made myself gasp! I need to keep my expectations low. What if she were to show up in . . . Calvin Klein? Or, oh my gawd, Michael Kors! I love you, MK. But if you even try to put a stitch of clothing on La Helena, I will scratch your eyes out!