I’m not a woman who spends hours in a day contemplating her
appearance and how to improve on it, but then again, few women
actually do. Another surprise, I know. But I do have my moments of
envy, almost hate, for the perfect looking friend who can flash a
delicate smile and seemingly make worlds collide. All the while, I can’t
even get extra cheese on my pie. Sometimes, I can’t even kick it. My
ancestors must have laid down some serious sh’it for me to inherit
this kind of luck.

Which brings me to the pathological dilemma that often plagues the
average-not-bad-looking-but-not-gut-striking female we all know and
love. Far too many times I’ve wished an enormous vanity table (circa
1987, Bill & Ted’s) would drop from the sky and transport me, if only
up a notch, to a more effective level of attractiveness. Really, I’m
only asking for enough to make a difference.

That, of course, never happens, although I remain hopeful. Life however,
can throw some serious curveballs into the equation often leaving one with a mild sense of
confusion coupled with mild disillusionment.

I grabbed my dinner tonight at a local Indian takeout joint. Living in Curry Hill I am surrounded
with endless options of South Asian cuisine if ever I have the courage to venture out. I finally
have settled on the cheapest, nearest location to frequent. It’s relatively clean, lined with
cafeteria style tables and folding chairs, a 17 inch color tube raised in one corner and appears
to draw a dining clientele of bachelors – regulars who are likely incompetent in the kitchen and
lack any other support at home. I always order "to go."

The guy who runs the place, we’ll call him Alfred, is always friendly and efficient. He offers me
samples of sweet pistachio rice and strange teas. He even throws in some extras with my
order making me feel like one ofthe girls from the neighborhood, and until today I thought he was
just a swift businessman exercising a tool we marketers like to call promotion. As I prepared to
hand over the $6.50 they charge for a curry chicken meal, hefty enough to last me through
tomorrow’s lunch, he stops me and declares, "Only $6.00 for you. I like your smile. Just try to
smile more."

I truly am grateful and am not entirely creeped out by that statement. He seems genuine and
not likely to expect more than a sincere thank you, which I promptly provide with a huge smile
and, "I’ll try."

Crossing the street toward my apartment I wonder, "What does this mean?"

Then, "Dang you’re a trip girl."

Rather than enjoying the little perk I got for being female, as I doubt a man would have
received equal hospitality, I questioned why. Should I have to worry now what he’ll say next
time?

"You don’t get something for nothing," mama always said.

Should I go back and just give him the $0.50? After all, I did get a grip load of chow...enough
to feed a family of three.

Then, out of nowhere, the creepy feeling snuck in.

Moral: And where is my damn vanity table? Waiting between clouds until I can recognize a gift
given one curry dinner at a time.

Even Daria wishes she were Cinderella...sometimes.

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