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>I Take That Back!

>Our prayers were answered. I wore a lovely teal number and an updo with a beautiful gardenia in my hair. Long black satin gloves covered nearly every inch of my frightfully white and untoned arms. Thank you, God!

I shared a “dressing room” (read: an area semi-enclosed by see through tablecloths surrounded by techies and band members milling about chatting and eating) with five men and three women. In other words, we were all on complete display. I had three costume changes which at one point included stripping down to absolutely nothing but a thong. Any inhibitions I may have had were plowed down by having only 10 minutes to race down three enormous flights of stairs, transform from one outfit to another, one hairdo to another and race back up three enormous flights of stairs.

During the entirety of one of these changes, I was being hit on by one of the guys. Ladies, if a man sees you sweaty and stripping down to nada, then quickly yank up a pair of pantyhose in front of makeup lights as bright as the Miami noon sun when you haven’t seen the real sun since September and he STILL wants to know if you’re single, then you know he hasn’t had sex in a long, long while.

I haven’t been in a nightclub in years. I’m more of the hang with my friends at a pub or restaurant and see a show kind of girl. It’s been a very long time since I wore an evening gown and got all glammed up to mingle with a few hundred strangers, so — and this sounds silly and very arrogant — I had forgotten that I can be beautiful. There wasn’t a single moment where I wasn’t being flirted with, asked out, chatted up or complimented and let me tell you, it felt good.

Which Reminds Me
A few weeks ago, Greg and I went to see Southern Fried Comedy at Stand Up NY and the hostess placed us front row, center. To top it off, the show was lightly attended. This meant we were the focus of every comedian’s audience interaction. Neither of us were willing to divulge much information and mostly kept quiet to avoid looking like those over-eager obnoxious audience members that are desperately wishing they were the one on stage. It started like this:

Emcee, “What about you two? Are you married?”
Me: “No.”
Emcee: “Are you on a date?”
Greg: “No, we’re just friends.”
Emcee, very matter of factly to Greg and mimicking Greg’s voice: “Oh, you’re gay. I get it. Good thing, because if you’re that good looking you had better be gay and give us ugly, straight guys a chance at the beautiful women.”

Greg then became the butt of all gay jokes, which he took in stride. After the show, Greg & I chatted about the banter.

Me: “It’s funny, I forgot that you actually are a really good looking guy!”
Greg, “I know what you mean! After [Tex in the City’s] 42nd Street event I was chatting with this guy who said, ‘Kambri is so beautiful’ and I thought, ‘Yeah, she is, isn’t she?'”

I’ve known Greg since I was 15 years old. I just see Greg, not the handsome Latin-lover-like stud that he is and he just sees me, Kambri, not the tall, svelte blonde bombshell that I am (heh, heh, heh). In high school I was always cast as the older lady or character-type roles, so I never saw myself as the ingenue. Even after all these years, it seems so foreign to me when people view me as a pretty, sexual being. I think of myself as a quirky Joan Cusack type. I guess what I’m getting at is that it’s nice to feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay!

Wow, this was long and pointless. My apologies!