In My Shoes

Have you ever been told you look as good as margarita pizza?  That's what some South Philly cuz told me when I went for a stroll down Passyunk Avenue this afternoon with Liz and her girl friends.  I think he intended it as a compliment.  At least, that's how I took it. 

He was no looker himself looking more like the brisket sandwich he told us he had just finished eating at the restaurant on the corner.  He bragged that he ate that sandwich three times a week--it was that delicious!-- and I could believe it given the way his belly hung over his belt.  I'm sure he washed down each time with a couple of beers. 

Having just come back from four nights in Miami for Art Basel, it felt good to be visible once again even if it meant being compared to a pizza by an overweight, aging would be lothario.  In Miami, any woman over 30 is virtually invisible.  There is a constant parade of young or desperate to be young women marching down the street or preening in the bars wearing impossibly high shoes and barely any clothes.  It's a really depressing, even disturbing scene. 

Thank god I don't have to wear those shoes.  There are definitely benefits to being invisible.